Author's website: http://www.geocities.com/themoo37

Disclaimer: Whatever is needed to keep The Moo out of jail.

Author's Notes: TYK to beta Julia. Also to 3 listlings whose birthday requests resulted in a trilogy - now posted in one fell swoop: Mapu, Carole and Amanda.

Story Notes:

The doorbell rang at a time when none of the Vecchios wanted to leave the kitchen to answer it. Ray was performing his duty as head of the family by carving a turkey; Ma was rinsing pasta; Francesca was arranging vegetables on a platter in what she considered an aesthetically pleasing design. Three pair of Vecchio eyes fell upon Fraser who was sitting watching them all from a kitchen chair.

Quite unnecessarily, Ma prompted him. "Caro?"

Fraser was already getting up and heading to the door. In two years of hanging around the Vecchio house he had learned which tasks were appropriate and appreciated and which were not. Any attempt to help with cooking or cleaning would win him a scolding. Shows of strength such as jar opening were best left to Ray, as "man of the house". "Gopher" was a job that all the Vecchios loved him to do: gopher polenta, as he had that very first evening, gopher another jar of oregano from the pantry, a dry dish towel from the linen cupboard, a ringing telephone, a doorbell.

Fraser opened the door and for the first instant was startled to see Ray standing outside on the doorstep. This was impossible since Fraser knew his friend was in the kitchen. After a few beats Fraser saw it was not Ray, but a condensed version, as though the Ray he knew had been boiled down into a more concentrated form. He was shorter, thinner and older than Ray - obviously a close relative.

Before Fraser had time to say anything, the man blurted out a belligerent "Who the hell are you?"

Since Fraser was the one answering the door, representing the household, as it were, it seemed inappropriate for the visitor to be the one asking that. Still, habit won out and without thinking Fraser supplied his standard, "Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

The man leaned forward just a little and studied Fraser's face. His expression was not at all friendly. "I'm seen you before." he announced. His accusing tone made Fraser wonder guiltily what this fellow had seen him doing.

Francesca's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Fraszh! Who is it?"

"It's me, Frannie!" the man yelled back. He pushed past Fraser into the vestibule. Fraser, sensing himself protector of the household, caught him by the arm and held him. The man didn't try to shake him off. He only turned and glared. "I saw you in the papers a few months ago, that's where I saw you. You saved the world or something."

"Not quite the whole world, but a lot of people. Ray and I saved them."

The mention of Ray didn't seem to improve this relative's mood. "Like I believe that. Now get your paws off me or so help me I'll . . ."

He was interrupted by the appearance of all the family. They all stood staring at each other. Ray spoke first. "So it's you."

This was identification enough for Fraser to let go of the man and just wait to see what would happen.

Tears came to Ma Vecchio's eyes. She extended her arms wide and the man moved in for a tight hug. "Michael, Michael, after so long . . ." she cried, rocking back and forth as she held him. The man, now identified as Michael, dropped all belligerence, clutched her and buried his face in her bosom.

Ray was unmoved by this tender scene. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ma caressed Michael's dark hair, which was just fractionally sparser than Ray's hair. "This is no way to talk to your older brother." To Michael she said, "Come, caro, into the kitchen."

"Now just hold it a minute," said Ray, "Who says he's welcome in this house?"

"I say," countered Ma, and kissed the top of Michael's bent head. "Did you come all alone, Michael? Where are Lina and the children?"

Michael Vecchio's voice, just a fraction lower than Ray's, was muffled by his mother's chest. "They're home. Lina threw me out. She's got a court injunction to keep me away."

Francesca breathed a sympathetic "Ooh."

But Ray fairly spat his next words. "What? Were you beating up on her?"

Michael gave his answer with a sob. "Yes."

Fraser was fascinated. So, this was the brother Ray had mentioned once and only once. He tried to glean what he could from what was happening before him in the vestibule. Ma was being typically Ma, cherishing her boy. Ray was steaming; the bad blood between the brothers must go way back. Francesca's reaction was out of her usual character. She was at a loss, saying nothing, her face a study in confusion. Usually the tiny woman held definite views on any subject and made these views loudly known. But here, by the door with two angry brothers and a conciliatory mother, she didn't seem to know how to react.

He hadn't thought of it before but now it struck Fraser that he'd never heard the name Michael or any talk of this brother from any of the Vecchios. Michael couldn't be completely estranged from the family; they knew of his wife and children and Ray had been able to guess at the cause of the domestic trouble. And yet they must all see one another quite seldom, hence Ma's exclamation "After so long!"

Even as Fraser was thinking this, Ma started moving Michael towards the kitchen, her arms still wrapped protectively around him. "Come, you'll eat something and tell me all about it." Francesca seemed relieved that the tension was being broken by definite action and fell in beside her brother on his other side. Together they escorted Michael safely past Ray who stood rooted to the floor, his eyes blazing with anger.

"Benito, Raymondo, come along. It's dinner time," Ma commanded without turning around as she moved her group towards her own domain.

Ray astounded Fraser by saying, calmly. "I won't sit at the same table with him." The declaration itself was not as much of a surprise as Ray's low, even tone. It chilled Fraser, so different was it from Ray's usual annoyed whine when he was upset. Here was anger so cold and firm that even his own mother accepted it and didn't argue.

"As you wish," she answered mildly, still not turning around.

Ray spun away from the rest of the family and bolted through the front door. Fraser found himself faced with the choice of following his friend or obeying Ma and joining the procession to the kitchen. As much as he wanted to go with Ray, Fraser knew disobeying Ma was not something to be undertaken lightly so he was at a loss. Ma settled things for him by pausing her entourage briefly, turning her head and saying, "Stay with him. He's upset." She headed off again then again stopped. "I'll give you both something later," she added, lest they think she was going to let them go unfed.

Fraser went through the front door to see that Ray had gone no further than the front steps, where he sat staring out into the darkening street. The Mountie sat on the step beside his friend and waited. Night was just falling and neighbours were calling their children in to dinner. From time to time a car would pull into a driveway as somebody came home from work. Ray sat looking out into the street. He was hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands cupped loosely. For several minutes he ignored Fraser and the Mountie didn't push him.

It was fully dark and all the kids of the neighbourhood were inside before Ray finally spoke. "He's just like Pop. God knows what he must have done to Lina and the kids before she finally threw him out. You want to know why I hate him so much? My brother, I mean. You want to know why?"

Fraser shrugged just enough for it to qualify as a signal for Ray to speak on.

"Because I know that was almost me. It was so hard - with Angie - to control myself, you know? I wanted so much to hit her sometimes."

"Did you?" It was something Fraser had been wondering ever since he learned about Ray's abused childhood. Violent men often raised violent sons and Fraser had from time to time reflected on whether heredity or upbringing was at work in these cases. Had this been part of the breakup of Ray's marriage? Fraser and Ray had known each other more than a year before Ray had ever even mentioned Angie and none of the other Vecchios spoke of her, so Fraser had considered it the better part of friendship not to ask. But tonight it seemed appropriate.

Ray shook his head. "Not even once. And what kills me is - Michael had the nerve to . . . " Ray halted abruptly. He sat up and looked directly at Fraser for the first time since coming out onto the porch. "Come on, let's go inside and get something to eat. Big happy family, right?"

"We can stay out here and talk. I'm not all that hungry," Fraser said, hoping to keep Ray talking while at the same time realizing he would probably fail. Ray had hit a "clam-up point" and it wouldn't be much help to push him at this time. Confident that he would learn later what Michael had the nerve to do, Fraser gave his friend's shoulder a brief pat and stood up.

Michael looked up from his plate as Ray and Fraser came into the kitchen. "You're finished your tantrum, little brother? So get ready to blow another gasket. I'm going to have to sleep here. I can't pay for a hotel. Lina wouldn't even let me back in to get my wallet. I've nothing but the clothes on my back and my car. She's making me wait until she talks to a lawyer before letting me anywhere near the house."

"How is it you have the car, caro?"

"I was coming home from work. I still had the car keys in my hand and she stopped me from coming in the door. Damn the bitch, she asked me for my wallet first, then slammed the door in my face. Next thing I knew a couple of stinking cops were escorting me off my own porch. I can't believe she actually took my wallet!" Michael cried.

"So you couldn't skip town, I guess," Ray said. "And by the way, I'm a stinking cop."

Fraser spoke up before Michael had a chance to answer. "It seems to me, Mr. Vecchio, that your wife might give you just a few emergency things if she were approached by a neutral party on your behalf."

"Oh it seems to you, does it?" Michael mocked.

Fraser made an effort not to take offense. The man was obviously hurting and couldn't be blamed for lashing out. He was in need of help.

"Perhaps if I came with you, she might at least let you have a few of your belongings."

They all watched Michael while he speared a piece of turkey breast with his fork, dipped it in gravy, conveyed it to his mouth and sat chewing it, thoughtfully. "I guess I don't have anything to lose. Sure."

"Well, then that's settled. You'll get your wallet, drop Benito back off here for his dinner, and then go on to a hotel."

It was only then that Fraser realized the depth of animosity between Michael and Ray. Ma was tacitly saying that it would be better if the older son did not remain in the house.

I've helped so many strangers, Fraser thought. It's like the Inspector says, I always interfere. These people are my family. I have to do something.

The home of Michael Vecchio was a twenty-minute drive from Ray's house. As they drove, a question occurred to Fraser and he put it to the older Vecchio brother who had been driving in silence. He knew his inquiries would border upon being rude, and he shuddered inwardly at the thought, but he would have to probe to get any information. It was in a good cause, he assured himself.

"You are the eldest child, correct?" Fraser began.

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

Fraser let that pass. Determined to be helpful, he took the man's rudeness as evidence of how distressed Michael must be, rather than an indication of bad will. "I was just wondering why your father didn't leave the house to you, as I understand is customary."

"Pop changed his will," Michael answered tersely. "He cut me out because I was an evil child."

"Why? For striking your wife? Forgive me for mentioning it but I happen to know he did the same himself."

Michael pulled to a stop at a red light. He turned and gave Fraser close attention for the first time during the trip. "You know my family pretty well."

"I think of Ray as my brother and Ma as my mother." He avoided mention of Francesca.

The belligerence, which had faded for a little while, came back. "Who said you could call her `Ma'?"

"She did," replied Fraser, mildly.

"She would," snarled Michael, driving again as the light turned green. "She'll put up with any kind of crap. That's why they hate me, you know. I tried to stop them from putting up with Pop's crap, but they all took his side against me."

He said no more and Fraser sat with his own thoughts while they continued the drive. Any reasonable person couldn't consider showing affection to Ma to be "crap". Michael must have a deep grievance to make him react that way.

They drove along some side streets and then Michael pulled into the driveway of a bungalow. It was a younger house than the Vecchio home, built no more than ten years ago, a typical suburban home.

"Perhaps you'd be wiser to park on the street," Fraser suggested as Michael was turning off the car engine.

"Are you nuts? This is my own driveway!"

"Mr. Vecchio, our task here is to make your wife feel kindly towards you and agree to let you have your belongings. Since she has made it clear she doesn't want you in the house, parking in the driveway may appear provocative. It's only a small gesture, after all, to park in the street and it may make her feel more secure."

Michael cursed, but he restarted the engine, reared out of the driveway with a squeal of tires and pulled into place along the sidewalk. "Right, what now?" he demanded.

"Keep the engine running," advised Fraser. "That will give her the impression that you don't intend to stay long. Again, a small gesture to ease the situation. I'll go speak to her. And remember, whatever happens, don't leave the car."

Fraser took his Stetson from the dashboard, settled it on his head and got out of the car. As he approached the front walk, Michael rolled down his window and called after him. "I want my wallet, and my passport, and some clothes. And I need my laptop - that belongs to the office. Oh, and my bankcard is in the top drawer of the bed table. And there's an extra set of car keys on a hook by the door. Make sure she gives you those."

Fraser stopped and answered the man back. "I'm not in a position to make sure she does anything, Mr. Vecchio. I'm going to ask her to give you as much as I can persuade her to give you, but you must realize she's under no legal compulsion to do so."

"You're a cop, aren't you?"

"Not in this jurisdiction."

With this, Fraser strode up the walkway to the bungalow's front door. A first ringing of the doorbell brought no answer, but from the lights in the window and the sounds of a Harry Potter video inside, he knew the family was at home. The action music of the quidditch scene seemed to be drowning out the buzzer. He tried a few more times and then rapped with his knuckles on the door. At last a woman wearing a housecoat and bedroom slippers came to answer.

Fraser noted her face, haggard with black circles under her eyes. There was a scratch, some six centimeters long, across her right cheek. The housecoat was short-sleeved and involuntarily, Fraser glanced at the woman's arms and noticed bruises. He felt an instant animosity for the man waiting in the car, and then made an effort to detach. He was here to help, not pass judgment. He was glad it had not been a child that answered the door. Fraser knew if he had seen evidence of violence on one of the children he wouldn't have been able to continue pleading anything on behalf of Michael Vecchio.

Michael watched the scene on the doorstep through his car window. He saw Fraser buzz and buzz and finally knock. Lina came to the door and Michael watched Fraser's gestures as he talked to her. Fraser was waggling his arms gently in explanation and then turned to wave an arm towards the car where Michael sat.

Lina looked where Fraser had indicated and started saying something. Michael couldn't hear what was being said, nor could he see the expression on Lina's face, but he saw her put her hands defiantly on her hips and vigorously shake her head. He saw Fraser's spread his hands in a helpless, placating manner. He was about to shout out the window to Fraser to stop begging when he saw Lina throw out her arm, pointing towards the car. Fraser started again talking and waving.

Lina threw her hands into the air in exasperation, whirled around and went back into the house, leaving Fraser alone on the doorstep. After a few moments she returned and handed something small to the Mountie. Fraser nodded, touched his hat brim, executed a sharp about face and marched resolutely back to the car.

With the fluid accustomed motion of getting into a Vecchio vehicle, Fraser pulled open the shotgun seat door, tossed his Stetson onto the dashboard and settled in. He held out a wallet in Michael's direction. "She says you can have your wallet and credit cards, but she's keeping the bank card and your passport and, well, everything else for the time being. Perhaps she's afraid you'll clear out the bank account and skip the country.

Michael slipped the wallet into the breast pocket of his jacket. "She doesn't trust me. The bitch. I never kept money from her. Did she tell you I ever kept money from her?"

No, apparently all you ever did was beat her and the children, Fraser almost said aloud, but maintained his silence. There was no more conversation between them during the drive back to the Vecchio house.

As they drove up, Michael said with a little smile, "Do you think it's okay for me to go into THIS driveway?" Without waiting for an answer to his quip, he drove into the driveway and parked behind the Riv.

Fraser returned his smile. "Where are you going to go?"

"What do you care?"

Fraser shrugged. "In case Ma asks. You know how she worries."

"Tell her I'll stay at The Concord."

"Would that be the truth?" Fraser asked.

Michael laughed for the first time that evening. "You may think I'm evil, but I would never lie to my mother. I'll be at The Concord and she can call me there if she wants. Me and Ray used to work there as busboys when we were young."

Fraser took up his hat, opened the car door and got out.

"Hey, Mountie!" Michael called after him through the open door. "Thanks!"

Fraser gave him a little wave, closed the door and watched him drive away.

Ma and Francesca hovered over Fraser while he ate his way diligently through the smallest portions of turkey and scalloped potatoes he felt he could get away with without insulting his hostesses. He had relayed the events, keeping to the barest of facts, as soon as he came through the door. Ray had not been downstairs waiting, as his mother and sister had been. Francesca explained that he had stormed up to his room shortly after Fraser and Michael left. To Ma's attempts at placating, he had only cursed through his closed door.

As soon as the last bit of food on his plate had been consumed under the women's watchful eyes, Fraser stood and announced that he would go speak to Ray. Ma and Francesca each took hold of one of his arms to prevent him from moving from the kitchen.

"Don't go up there," Ma pleaded. "It won't do any good. Leave him alone."

Fraser protested, "He's my best friend. I can't leave him upset like this."

"No, Benito, please listen to me. Don't interfere. I know you mean well, but please don't get involved."

"Then I'll go speak to Michael. I know where he's staying."

"No! I beg you. Leave them both alone."

It tore through Fraser to hear the pleading in her voice. "But, Ray's my brother."

Ma's face took on a look of sadness and her eyes teared. She took a gulp before saying, very softly, "Go upstairs, Francesca. Benito and I are going to talk alone."

Francesca opened her mouth to protest, then decided against making any argument. She went up the stairs to her own room without a word.

Ma, her arm still linked through Fraser's, led him to the living room and sat him down on the couch. She settled beside him and used her free hand to caress the Mountie's cheek. "Please don't make me say things that will hurt you. Just do as I say. Stay away from them both."

"But, Ma, Ray's my brother."

"No, he's not."

Fraser's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Ma . . ." he began, bleating the single syllable like a calf calling to its mother.

"He's not your brother and I'm not your mother." She was crying openly now. "I can't stand to hurt you like this but I must. To protect my children."

"But . . ."

"Benito, you know I care for you almost like my own boy. You know I treat you like part of the family. But . . ." she broke into sobs and hid her face briefly in her apron. Then she raised her head, wiped her eyes and carried on. "But you're not my son. You're not their brother. There are things that happened in this family that you just haven't lived through and can't understand."

Fraser felt his whole insides suddenly swell and choke his breath. What was she saying? It was literally the truth, she was not his mother, but hearing it made him feel six years old again and being told his mother would never come back to him. Tears began to gather in his eyes.

"I've hurt you. I didn't want to hurt you. But you must trust me. If you care for my family, stay out of this. I know my children. Please."

Fraser seemed oblivious to her words of pleading. "Not my mother," he repeated dully, "Not my brother."

One tear leaked out onto his cheek and Ma used a corner of her apron to wipe it from his face. The apron was still damp from her own tears but she was too distracted by the guilt of hurting Fraser to think of finding a dry spot. "I do care for you, Benito. You must believe that."

"And I care for all of you. Why won't you let me help?"

"I know my children," she repeated. "I know how Michael will react if you say the wrong thing. He's so like his father. I know you mean well, but you can't know. You're just . . ." she paused, not sure what she could say that wouldn't hurt his feelings further.

". . . not part of the family." Fraser fought for control. All we wanted to do was bury his face against her and cry but that would be wrong. She wasn't his mother. Ray wasn't his brother. He had to make a dignified exit, somehow, and be alone.

"I should go," he choked out, finally, and gently took her arm off his own arm and placed it in her lap. "Thanks for dinner. Say good-night to Francesca and Ray for me, please." It took all his concentration to put one foot before the other and make his way carefully to the door by memory. His eyes were too clouded by tears to see his way clearly.

He opened the door and was about to go through it when Ma called after him. "Promise me you won't talk to Michael. Promise me you'll leave him alone."

Fraser ignored her and let himself out. Leaning against the wrought-iron porch railing, he paused to try to think clearly. For thirteen years he had interfered in the lives of strangers as an officer of the law. Family violence was something he knew how to handle. All those years of making peace among families both on duty and off duty - what good were those skills if he couldn't use them to re-unite the family that he considered his own now?

No, not his own. Fraser shuddered as he remembered Ma's words "But you're not my son. You're not their brother. There are things that happened in this family that you just haven't lived through and can't understand."

As he stood there on the porch in the faint glow of the lights coming through the Vecchio living room window, two disparate and desperate thoughts linked in Fraser's mind. "I MUST help" and "I'll show her I DO understand." With a last glance back toward the Vecchio door, he said out loud "I'll show you." Then he left the porch and went into the street.

The Concord Hotel had once been prestigious. But it had crumbled along with the surrounding neighbourhood. Rock music blared into the street from the bar, the parking lot was littered and the paint peeling, both inside and out. Fraser figured it qualified only barely as a place where families on tight budgets and salesmen working on commission might stay and still feel respectable.

Fraser got out of the taxi. Taking it had been an unthinkable extravagance but he knew he wouldn't be able to walk. Usually a long walk cleared his head and helped him think, but tonight his brain wasn't working normally.

Fraser paid off the driver and realized he'd left himself without enough cash for a taxi home. It didn't matter. He had to get through to Michael, make him reconcile with Ray, force them to be brothers again. I'm not Ray's brother, Michael is. They may not want me, but I have to help them. I will help. I know I can bring them together.

The words chased one around in his mind. He tuned out Ma's pleading, so determined was he to interfere. That was what he did - always. He may not be Ray's brother, but he was his partner and friend. I know this family better than you think I do, he told Ma in his mind. I'm going to prove I can help.

A middle-aged clerk at the front desk told him which room number Michael Vecchio was staying in. He leered at Fraser and said, sotto voce, "Whatever he's paying you, I'll double it. I get off in ten minutes. Just wait here." Fraser said nothing and walked away towards the elevator, re-evaluating his assessment of the place as respectable. He passed a house-phone on the way and decided against using it call Michael first. Better to just surprise him than to give him a chance to refuse to see him or sneak away.

"I thanked you for getting my wallet. What else do you want?" Michael stood in the doorway of his hotel room, blocking it. He spoke in exactly the tone that Ray had used two years ago when he had said to Fraser, "Now, is there anything else?" How alike the two brothers were!

"I'd like to talk to you," said Fraser, simply. "I'd like to help."

"Why?"

It was a good question and it forced Fraser to think, in that moment, about his motives. He told the truth.

"I need to understand." That was it. Ma had said that he couldn't understand. Perhaps if he understood, he might be part of the family, his clouded mind told him.

Michael stepped back and allowed him in. "Okay, sure. Come on in. Why not?"

He waved towards an armchair. Fraser sat down in it and motioned "no" to the bottle to scotch Michael was waving in his face. Michael poured himself a drink. Fraser decided, from watching his motions, that it was not his first drink of the night, but he was not yet drunk. He was glad to have caught the man while he was still coherent.

Michael sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'll tell you a story. Once upon a time there were six bears. A poppa bear, a momma bear, two little boy bears and two little girl bears," he began.

Eighteen-year-old Michael Vecchio wanted to think of himself as the man of the house. Pop wasn't any good as a man. Sure, Pop brought in the money that fed them but that didn't give him the right to slap Ma and the little kids around. And Ma stood for it.

Until just a few months ago, Michael didn't think there was any way out. But now, from the loftiness of his eighteen years and talking to people at school, he knew. You had rights. You could make a complaint to the police. To the social workers. You could get protection - get away.

Well, today it was going to stop. Today Michael was going to stand up to Pop and the first time Pop raised a hand to any of them Michael would clobber him. I'm not a child anymore, Michael told himself, and I'm as big as he is now. Today, he goes down. And then, I take Ma and the little ones away. We get out.

It hadn't happened as he fantasized it. Pop had come home a little earlier and a little less drunk than usual. Ma was at the stove, rushing to get dinner ready for him ahead of schedule. They quarreled. Michael didn't pay attention to what it was about. It never mattered what it was about. The pattern was always the same: Pop would accuse, Ma would protest, he would yell, she would whimper, he would raise his fist, or his open palm and it would begin as it always did. But not this time, young Michael told himself as he waited for the crucial moment.

The moment came. But Pop was more sober than Michael had expected. When the boy jumped between his parents and tried to get a swing against his father, the older man was aware enough to block it. Michael was as tall as his father, but scrawny. Arthur Vecchio had him on the ground and bloodied in short order. Then the older man stormed out, leaving the boy on the kitchen floor. "Don't you touch him, Gwen. He deserves every bit of it. A boy attacking his father! He's lucky I didn't kill him!"

Ma actually waited until Pop was safely out of the house before dropping to the floor beside her son. Michael never forgot that delay. It showed him just how afraid Ma was. She didn't even dare take care of her oldest child while Pop was in the house.

Ma cleaned him and bandaged him and put him to bed. She gave him soup through a straw, so sore was his jaw from the bashing he'd received. And that was when he said it. Ray and the girls were in the room listening and watching while Ma gave him soup and that's when Michael made his pronouncement. He was going to walk out of the house and take his mother and siblings with him. They had to get away. He declared it with the full authority of his teenaged arrogance, "Ma, I'm taking you out of here. You and Ray and Maria and Francesca. We're getting away."

He was stunned by her refusal. It didn't make sense. Well into the night he argued and pleaded, although it hurt his battered face to talk. He tried to make her see reason. The little kids listened in fascination but not really understanding the fight between their big brother and their mother. She could not leave and he could not accept it.

In the end he had crawled out of bed, still sore, and packed a bag. Now it was his mother's turn to beg and plead but Michael was too angry and humiliated to back down. He left his sobbing mother and stunned siblings and spent his first night away with his Aunt Rosa, a mere six blocks away.

When Arthur came home again, much later and much drunker, Gwen summoned enough courage to refuse to tell him where the boy had gone. She paid for this gallantry with a broken rib.

Fraser imagined this all from little Raymondo's point of view. He wouldn't understand much except his big brother had run away, and if his big brother had stayed home his mother wouldn't be in the hospital. His heart broke as he saw how it must have been through Ray's eyes.

Fraser continued to be mesmerized as Michael told how he got by during those first couple of difficult years, earning a living with odd jobs and still managing to finish high school. Then came the story of how Lina came into his life, how they married and settled and started a family.

"And that's when it started, when the kids came. That's when I started losing it. It wasn't so bad at first, I could control myself. But stuff got harder and harder to take and I started to understand a little what Pop felt. I tried not to hit them, damn it. But it got to be too much. Ray's so fucking high and mighty. He hasn't got kids. He doesn't know what it's like, having all that pressure."

So, the pattern of abuse continues, mused Fraser. He began to see Ray's anger. After running away to avoid the family violence, this brother was only perpetuating the same with his own family. Here was a man with everything Fraser himself yearned for. Even in his fascination with the story he was hearing of Ray's family, he still smarted from Ma's words. "You're not my son. You're not their brother."

"But you see the family sometimes," Fraser probed. "They know about your wife and children."

"Weddings, christenings, funerals, that's when I see them. Except one funeral. When Pop died, I didn't go."

Fraser was horrified. "Your own father? Didn't you think your mother would need you?"

Michael had been drinking while telling his tale and only a little bit of liquid remained in the bottom of the bottle of scotch. He downed it in a gulp. "She doesn't want my help. None of them do. Not back then and not now." Michael stood up and tossed the empty liquor bottle into a wastebasket.

I always look for the good in people, Fraser thought. Somewhere in Michael was the loving, hurt son that had stormed out years ago out of the frustration of being unable to help his family. And something had happened to twist and gnarl Michael into the same kind of man he had hated back then.

It unnerved Fraser, as he sat looking at Ray's brother, how much the two brothers looked alike. Even unsteady from drinking, Michael's stance and gestures were eerily like those of his brother. "That was almost me," Ray had said.

Fraser stood up. He paced the room as if it were his own, deep in thought. Michael Vecchio wasn't talking like an evil man. He'd had a difficult past, as Ray and all the Vecchios had, but there was no sympathy at this moment for him in Fraser's soul. Fraser was puzzled by his own reaction. Why hadn't he any pity for the older Vecchio - for the man that Ray had narrowly missed becoming himself?

The answer came to him as he paced. Because this man abused a loving family when he, Fraser, had been deprived of one. Not only years ago, but again tonight. With other people's families, it hadn't seemed to make a difference. Ray could have become as his brother was now. It was an image too horrible for Fraser to face.

At this thought, Fraser stopped his pacing and made himself see a truth. He hadn't really been rejected. Ray's mother still cared for him. He regretted now going against her wishes. Ma had been right that he shouldn't try to interfere, but for the wrong reason. I'm too close to them to be able to help, he decided. I shouldn't hate Michael Vecchio, but, God forgive me, I do. I've seen men hurt their families but they've always been strangers. I could always detach. This time I can't.

Michael peered at him through eyes now blurry with drink. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Fraser knew what he should say. Michael wasn't yet drunk enough to rule out being given a lecture about getting counseling. Or maybe he could be told an Inuit story to warn about the risk of Michael's own children perpetuating violence with their own future families. The Mountie had all the material at hand for a fine speech but hadn't the heart to deliver it. Michael would have heard all of it already. He'd known it since he was eighteen years old.

Fraser remained silent. He didn't think there was anything for him to accomplish here. He'd finally met a man that he couldn't make excuses for. The best thing would be to get out before saying anything damaging.

"Well, don't just stand there and look at me. Don't you have anything to say?" Michael insisted.

"I wish I did," Fraser confessed. "I usually tell people Inuit stories and make them regret their past. Until now it always worked. I had one all ready to tell you, but I don't think it would do any good."

Michael looked puzzled at this. "You could tell me anyway. I'd listen. You're going to make me see the error of my ways and send me back to my family, right?"

"No!" Fraser blurted out, alarmed at the very thought of this man getting near his wife and children. His denial was so sudden and vehement that the other man recoiled from it, as though from a physical blow. "I came here to find the good in you and show it to Ray."

The drink was now taking its toll on the man. He grabbed at the front of Fraser's shirt. "And you found it, didn't you? You see the good in me, don't you? Don't you? "

Fraser couldn't lie. "I think I see where it used to be," he said, sadly.

"You think I'm a monster."

"I don't like to think of any man as a monster," Fraser sought for something to say that could be encouraging and yet still be the truth. "I suppose anyone can change. "

It seemed a safe enough comment but Michael, even in his present state, could hear the Mountie's lack of conviction.

"Don't give me that bullshit. Me! I'm talking about me!" the profanity was only from force of habit. The man was pleading.

But Fraser was now too sick at heart to tell this desperate man what he wanted to hear. Perhaps the man could change, but Fraser couldn't bring himself to give Michael the assurance he craved. There might be something of the well-meaning, damaged boy in Michael Vecchio but it was hidden from Fraser in the enormity of his later crime.

"I'd better go," Fraser said, gently lifting Michael's hands off his clothes. With a last pathetic look at Ray's brother, he let himself out of the hotel room. It didn't matter than he had no cab fare home. Nor did it occur to him to take a bus. He walked the miles back to his apartment in a daze and it was nearly dawn by the time he arrived.

Ray didn't call the next day or night, leaving Fraser to wonder if there had been any aftermath from the hotel encounter. Perhaps Ma need never know he had tried to interfere and failed to do any good. He should have trusted her judgment. Tempting as it was to avoid the Vecchios, Fraser steeled himself to call the 27th the following morning and ask if he might come to Ray's house in the evening.

Ray's "Sure, I'll pick you after work" sounded normal, but still Fraser fretted all the rest of the workday and made a muddle of every report he picked up.

Right at five, Fraser heard a honking horn outside the consulate door and went out to find Ray waiting in the Riv.

"I better warn you," Ray said as Fraser got into the car, "Ma's not in the greatest mood. We got a note from Michael in the mailbox. Nobody saw him leave it."

"Oh. What's in it?" Fraser managed to say and hoped Ray wouldn't catch on to how worried he was. Ray seemed none the worse for the high drama of two days ago. Had Ma known that would be the case when she prevented Fraser from talking to Ray that night? Had she known he'd calm down on his own and no harm done? Then, she was right when she said she knew her children. It made Fraser regret all the more his visit to Michael Vecchio and all the more fearful of what may have happened. If Ray was now feeling better and the older Vecchio's family safe from his abuse, what good had there been in Fraser's attempt? The interfering, do-gooder Mountie. It was a role he would have to re-evaluate.

"That's the thing. I don't know what it says. Ma wouldn't tell me over the phone." Ray went on, oblivious to Fraser's tension. "I'm telling you, don't expect a nice relaxing evening tonight, Benny."

"Then maybe you'd better just take me home, if your mother's not in the mood for company."

"You're not company, you're family." Ray said, as though this were a simple fact.

Fraser shivered and took his Stetson from where he had placed it, as usual, on the dashboard and held it like a security blanket all through the drive to the Vecchio house.

Fraser resolved to ask nothing and wait for Ma to let him know just how much she was aware of Fraser's interaction with Michael. He didn't have to wait long. He came into the house as he always did, trailing a little behind Ray so that Ma could kiss the cheeks of first her son and then himself as they filed in to the kitchen. Fraser only got a dry brush of her lips instead of the customary noisy, wet, smooch.

As soon as his mother had finished greeting them, Ray demanded "So, don't keep us waiting. What does the son-of-a-bitch have to say?"

Francesca rolled her eyes. "You're insulting Ma, you realize," she said, bringing the literal meaning of that expression to all their attention.

Ma wiped her hands on a dishcloth and sat down at the kitchen table. "Don't curse in the house, Raymondo," she said, absently. The she turned to the Mountie. "The note is on the living room table. Would you go get it please, Fraser?"

"Fraser", not "Benito". A jolt of tension shot through the room. Ma got up from the table to hang her apron on a hook in the pantry. Ray took advantage of this to lean over and whisper to his sister, "What's going on?"

"I don't know. She's been cross since she read the note," Francesca whispered back.

"Okay, but why's she mad at Benny?"

Francesca shrugged. "We'll find out, I guess."

If Ma heard this conversation, she didn't show it. She returned to the table, sat down and waited, hands folded in her lap, until Fraser returned with the envelope. He handed the envelope to her and she took it without a word. Fraser, Ray and Francesca sat down with her to listen. Before starting to read, Ma looked up and caught Fraser's eye with a look he'd never seen her direct at him before. It was anger. She frowned in his direction and he flinched under her gaze.

"Here's what he says," Ma began and started reading:

"I used to think I was justified in everything I did in the past and everything I'm doing now. But that Mountie, Fraser, made me realize how wrong I was. He made me see I'm no better than Pop. I was only kidding myself. Lina and the kids will be better off without me and I've written to her to tell her that she doesn't have to worry about me bothering them anymore."

"What's he talking about?" Ray interrupted. "What does Fraser have to do with anything?"

"After Michael left here, Fraser wanted to go talk to him," Ma told them.

Francesca whirled in her chair around to face the Mountie. "Why, Fraszh?"

Fraser felt himself shrinking. "I wanted to help. " The words sounded lame.

"And I asked him not to. I begged him not to," said Ma. Her face was grim but composed. She creased and uncreased the paper in her hands, keeping her eyes fixed on Fraser as she said, "Now listen to the rest." She went back to her reading.

"Don't expect to hear from me again. If I decide to go on living, I'll get a lawyer to arrange everything with Lina so she won't have to talk to me either.

I haven't decided whether to kill myself or not. There's plenty of insurance and Lina knows where all the policies are, so that's no problem. Anyway, I'll have my wallet on me so the police will let her know. Tell Fraser thanks again for getting it."

Ma folded the note and tossed it to the kitchen table. Ray and Francesca followed their mother's glare to look at Fraser.

Fraser didn't dare look away from Ma's accusing stare. "I interfered," he whispered.

For all that there were three Vecchios and a Mountie sitting in the kitchen, there was still dead silence. Looking around at his mother, sister and friend, Ray was the only one with the presence of mind at that moment to realize what an unusual state of affairs that was.

Ma's glare towards Fraser was so intense you could almost see her anger shimmering in the air between them. Fraser cringed under the assault but still did not lower his eyes. He endured her direct gaze - his well-deserved punishment for disobeying the will of a mother. Not HIS mother. You are not my son. These were her words of two nights ago. And what had he done to try to win his place in her affection? Interfered when she had begged him not to and driven Ray's older brother to God knows what rash act of desperation.

Francesca sat crinkling her brow and narrowing her eyes in what was perhaps an unconscious attempt to exert pressure on her brain. She couldn't figure out what was happening. Michael was playing his usual passive-aggressive games. Nothing strange there. But Ma was dumping on Fraszh. What the . . .?"

It was Ray that broke the silence. "Wait a minute? You're blaming Fraser for this?" He gestured at the note on the table.

"I asked him not to interfere," was all Ma would say.

"Ma! He's been doing this for years!"

While Fraser knew Ray meant that Michael had been manipulating the family for years, he couldn't help thinking of another meaning for those words. He, Fraser, had been interfering in people's lives for years. Always to the good. He couldn't remember when his attempts had backfired before now. Dear Ray. Ray was defending him as a friend would, but Fraser knew himself to be guilty. Guilty of disobedience. Guilty of failing to save Michael Vecchio.

Ray went on, his anger rising. "For years he's been pulling this shit and you keep letting him get away with it!"

"Don't curse in the house," Ma said, automatically, with no real feeling. It was a reflex.

Ray jumped up from his chair. "Curse in the house? I'll tell you what's a curse in this house. Him! Him! He hurts Lina, he hurts the kids, damn him, and you feel sorry for him. He's messing with your head, Ma! He's always done it. And you keep letting him get away with it! Now you pin this all on Benny?" Then Ray spoke the unspeakable in his rage. "Are you nuts?"

The others, especially Ma herself, stiffened with shock as he shot these disrespectful words at his mother.

"I begged him to stay away from Michael." But she released Fraser from the grip of her gaze, rose and turned to the kitchen counter. "We should eat now," she pronounced, evenly, signaling that the conversation was finished as far as she was concerned.

"No. We don't eat. We have this out. Now! I can't stand this anymore. No matter what he does, you take his side. Lina throws him out in the street like he deserves. He comes to this house. MY DECENT HOUSE! And you let him in and feed him and take care of him. You take his side. Like he never did anything wrong."

Fraser wished he could crawl away unnoticed, burrow into a hole and die. Not only had he failed to connect with Michael Vecchio, this failure had somehow alienated his best friend from his mother.

"You brother has his own problems, Raymondo. He's a sick man."

Ray waved his arms around wildly. "Sick? Sick?" Spittle flew from his mouth as he sputtered the words. "Sick like Pop? Is that it? Is that what somebody has to do for you to love him? Be sick? Like Pop?"

"Ray," Francesca cautioned softly "Maybe you ought to settle down."

"No, I won't settle down!" Ray wheeled about in his place, whipping his arms high into the air as he faced each person in the kitchen in turn. "What? What? This is MY fault? This is Fraser's fault?"

He turned to his mother, took her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. He grabbed her two hands in his own. "Ma," he pleaded, "Don't you see it? This is Michael's own fault. He does this to himself. Pop did it to himself. They're not sick. They're just no good."

Ma Vecchio squeezed her son's hands. Tears formed in her eyes. "No, Raymondo, I can't blame them for what they are. I love my husband. I love my oldest baby. They're not bad, they're sick." She spoke of her dead husband as though he were still in the house expecting her to take care of him, defend him.

Ray grunted and sagged as the air rushed out of him. He let his mother's hands drop. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

What was the point, he asked himself. She's not going to change. I'm not going to change. I'm the good boy. I stay home, I support the family. I never raise a hand to anybody and I never talk back. This is my house but she rules it. He turned away from them all and headed out of the kitchen. "Come on, Benny. Let's go get some air."

"Dinner," Ma reminded him. The word was a lifeline she was throwing out. Take it, Raymondo. Come back and sit down. Put us all back to normal.

Ray was too crushed with defeat to be interested in helping her restore normality. "That's okay, Ma. I'm not hungry right now." To the Mountie he repeated, "Let's go." He slunk out without looking back.

Fraser forced himself to look to the old woman for permission to leave. Curtly, she nodded a brief dismissal. Fraser got up. As he turned to leave the kitchen he faced Francesca and said "I'm sorry I caused this trouble, Francesca."

Francesca had to smile, just a little. Here was Fraszh saying he was sorry, like he had anything to do with anything. What a sweet guy. She touched his arm. "Hey, you didn't DO anything. This doesn't have anything to do with you."

Fraser licked his lips and raised his eyes briefly to look at Ma, who was pouring spaghetti from a pot into colander that was waiting in the kitchen sink. Her back was to them. "I disobeyed your mother. I meddled where I shouldn't have. If it hadn't been for me . . ."

Francesca interrupted him. "You're not the cause of this, Fraser. It's been going on for a long time and it's going to keep on going. Nothing you do makes any difference. Okay?"

She had meant it as a reassurance but the words "Nothing you do makes any difference" were no comfort. He sniffed back the tears he didn't want to shed in this setting and waited momentarily to see if Ma would react to anything being said between Francesca and himself. Ma was now rinsing the pasta and giving no indication that she was even listening. Displacement, Fraser figured. She's very upset. Fraser dipped his head in Francesca's direction in a silent leave-taking before going out of kitchen.

Ray wasn't in the living room. Fraser went to look for him in Ray's favourite moping spot - his own bedroom. Failing to find Ray there, Fraser tried out Ray's second favourite moping spot - the front porch. There he found his friend leaning sitting on the front steps, his elbows resting on his knees and face cupped in his hands.

Ray raised his head and looked around at the sound of the front door opening behind him. As he turned towards Fraser, the Mountie could make out, even in the dim porch light, the tell-tale red of crying around his eyes.

Ray ventured a tiny, sheepish smile. "Don't worry about all that. Just the usual night's entertainment in the Vecchio house."

Fraser settled in on the porch beside his friend. "Your mother's upset," he ventured.

"Oh yeah, and I'm calm as hell. Can't you tell?" He chuckled but there was no mirth in his eyes as he returned his chin to his hands.

"I'm sorry about this, Ray."

Ray straightened up and swung around to take a good look at Fraser. "You really are. You really are sorry," he said with some amusement.

"Shouldn't I be?" Fraser's question was genuine. That he could have interfered and still had no influence on the subsequent events was a startling idea. He sat for a moment, running the concept through his mind. He went darting into the various corners of his brain, trying to find a context in which to understand Ray's strange comment. It was a bizarre idea, totally contrary to his upbringing: not being personally responsible for all the woes of the world. Ray's next words tugged him out of his own head.

"She keeps hoping he'll return like the prodigal son. Oh God, her precious first-born. I'm nothing, Fraser. I'm the good kid who stays home and doesn't make any trouble and doesn't get noticed. In my own house," Ray mused.

"Your mother loves you, Ray." The response hadn't required any real thought. It was simply what Ray needed to hear.

"Yeah, I know. Thing is, knowing doesn't help."

"I don't understand." And, in truth, Fraser didn't.

"Better for you if you don't," Ray said with finality and reached over to slap his friend's knee. "Let's go in and eat." He stood up.

Fraser sighed. He couldn't keep up with Ray's emotional flights and plunges. Outwardly it seemed his friend could leap emotional buildings at a single bound, going from rage to calm and back again as easily as Fraser himself could jump over a fence. Still it felt like there was more here than just the blow up of a Mediterranean temperament. His friend was wounded this time. Somebody had stuck a knife out the window while he was leaping the building and slashed his belly. Now Ray's resentment was spraying out like blood from the wound.

And nothing I do makes any difference? Can that be true, Fraser wondered as he followed Ray back into the house.

Two weeks had passed since Ray's mother had accused Fraser of driving Michael Vecchio away and Ray had blown up in anger against her. To Fraser it had been a huge emotional event but Ray, as ever, seemed outwardly unaffected, in the long term, by all the emotional ups and downs that made up Vecchio family life. To Fraser's inquiries, Ray would answer easily that nothing had been heard from his older brother and that Lina, Michael's wife, was just as happy.

Ray hadn't invited Fraser back to the house since that night, but a gap of two or three weeks between visits to the Vecchios was not unusual. So Fraser had no way of knowing if Ma Vecchio was still angry at him - short of asking Ray and this the Mountie didn't want to do.

When Fraser thought about it, and this was several times a day, he decided that it was not at all unusual for the "good child" of a family to resent the attention lavished on the "black sheep". It was a familiar pattern and quite understandable that Ray felt slighted.

"She keeps hoping he'll return like the prodigal son. Oh God, her precious first-born. I'm the good kid who stays home and doesn't make any trouble and doesn't get noticed. In my own house," That's how Ray had said it, that horrible night. Yes it was a familiar pattern but this time the slighted child was Fraser's own best friend.

Fraser had no personal experience to compare with this. He had grown up an only child in a quiet, circumspect household where to raise one's voice was practically unheard of. A wrinkled brow and bitten lip were all that showed in his grandmother's face when she was displeased. And while Grandfather made free enough with the traditional birch rod against his grandson's backside - he never shouted.

Fraser preferred to let his thoughts revolve around his friend's emotional issues and put out of his mind as much as he could the effects on himself and his own feelings. During the day this was possible but alone in his apartment at night he could not help reliving Ma's anger against him and his sense of failure at not being able to help Michael Vecchio.

The receptionist at the consulate buzzed to let in the man who identified himself as Mr. Vecchio and asked to see "the Mountie". The nearest Mountie to hand was Constable Turnbull who happened to be standing the reception desk at that moment.

He turned to greet the visitor and was puzzled. He'd met Detective Vecchio in the company of Constable Fraser a few times and this man looked something like him - but not exactly like him. Still, he called himself "Vecchio" so Turnbull figured he was simply mistaken and this was Constable Fraser's friend after all. He greeted the man with a polite, "May I help you, sir?"

Michael Vecchio peered at the tall officer. "You're not the right Mountie." It sounded like an accusation and Turnbull, never too secure, took it as such.

"I . . . we . . . there's also Constable Fraser." Silently he berated himself. Of course, why would Constable Fraser's friend want to speak to anybody else?

"That the only other Mountie you got here?" Michael demanded.

Turnbull was getting more intimidated. "There's also Inspector Thatcher but she's busy at the moment, Detective."

Michael laughed. The sound of his laughter didn't relax poor Turnbull's in any way. Michael's laugh was harsh, derisive. "You taking me for my brother? I'm no stinkin' cop. Yeah, Fraser, that name sounds right. He here?"

"As far as I know, he's in his office," Turnbull said, taking in the new information that this was not Detective Vecchio but his brother. Well, this other Mr. Vecchio had none of the easy manner and good humour of Constable Fraser's friend. Happy to get away from this unpleasant visitor, Turnbull used the receptionist's phone to buzz his colleague and ask Fraser to come out front.

Fraser was barely able to mask his surprise at this appearance of the man who had been so much in his thoughts. As he came close to the desk, Turnbull whispered to him, "He didn't ask for you by name, sir. At first he just said he wanted to see a Mountie."

It struck Fraser that he and Michael had spent quite some time together that dreadful night. And here Michael didn't even remember his name. What did that show? Self-centeredness? Denial?

He led Michael to his own miniscule office, sat him down, offered tea and offered nothing else when Michael declined tea. There was no smell of alcohol about Michael nor any unsteadiness in his manner. He was stone cold sober and barely civil. His confiding in Fraser in the hotel room might never have happened. Or perhaps, Fraser thought, he's being rude because he's ashamed of that confidence.

"Look, I guess I didn't really thank you properly for helping me out that night," Michael began, "I appreciate what you did."

Never had Fraser seen a man's manner so out of sync with his words. Michael slouched in Fraser's visitor's chair and spat out the words with contempt.

Why, for the love of God, is he here? Fraser wondered. "I'm glad I could help," he said, blandly.

"Yeah, I'd have been up shit creek if you hadn't got me my stuff. And then later in my hotel room. . ." continued Michael. "Tell you the truth, I don't exactly remember what we talked about but I do remember - seemed like you wanted to help me."

"I did," Fraser admitted, "But you were indisposed."

At that, Michael jerked his body straight in his chair and anger flashed across his face. "Indisposed? Look, pal, I didn't come here for you to patronize me. I was drunk. Can't you say that word? Naw, you're too polite."

"Polite" was a foul insult, if you listened only to Michael's tone and it was to that tone, rather than to the actual word, that Fraser responded. He went into full formal Mountie-mode. "You came here to ask for my help, you said."

"Yeah. Here's how you can help me. You can go talk to Lina again and get her to let me see the kids. She listened to you before."

"Out of the question. This matter is in the hands of your lawyers and the courts." Fraser hoped the frostiness of his delivery would cut the conversation short. But Michael didn't seem notice the Mountie's manner and tone in any way. He's completely self-absorbed, thought Fraser. All he cares about is what he is going to say next. He's taking nothing in from the outside.

"Screw them. Children should be with their father. You talk to Lina for me. Then she'll tell the fuckin' lawyers and the fuckin' cops to back off."

Michael's cavalier attitude so unnerved Fraser that he blurted out, "You're a violent man with a history of abusing your family. You may as well know that you disgust me. I only tried to help you to prove to your mother I could be part of the family."

The words slipped out before Fraser actually thought them. After weeks of mulling over his motives, the penny dropped. He had no real desire to help Michael Vecchio. Not back then and certainly not now. All he wanted to do was show Ma that he understood and could help. And the attempt had backfired to the point that Ma hated him. Or so he feared.

The malice he had been trying to deny broke through. "You're a fiend. If there were any way I could, I'd see that you rot in jail until the children are grown."

Michael jumped up, livid. "You son of a bitch! You going to tell me you never swatted one of your kids? Never?"

"I haven't any children, but if I did I know I would never lay a hand on them. My grandfather chastised me often enough, but he never came home inebriated and out of control. I can never countenance such behaviour."

Fraser's haughty declaration enraged the man even more. "So, your grandpa slapped you around when you were a kid? Yeah. So what makes him better than me?"

"My grandfather," Fraser proclaimed, as though preaching from a great height, "punished me soberly and with deliberation. Never, never did he strike me in anger."

Michael Vecchio laughed. It was so unexpected that Fraser could only stare. Michael let out great guffaws and grabbed his own midsection before settling back into his chair out of breath from his merriment.

"Oh that's rich! That's really something."

"I see nothing funny in what I said," Fraser said, uncomprehending.

"No, I guess you don't. Well, pal, here's what you said: Your grandpa beat up on you, on purpose, thinking about it ahead of time. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't even mad. He just calmly went and walloped you."

Michael burst out laughing again, then recovered and continued.

"I've got to be drunk and out of control. But not your grandpa. Oh no, he did it on purpose. Let ME tell YOU something - I never touch nobody when I'm sober. I have to be out of my mind first. So who's the criminal here?"

Fraser was staggered. Until that moment he'd never thought of his grandfather's lashings as anything but the normal discipline parents used in that place and time. Fraser knew he himself could never strike a child but at the same time never connected that attitude with what he had experienced in his own youth. He had no answer for Michael Vecchio. In that instant he tumbled from his high horse and could only look speechless across his desk at the man who had just turned his mind inside out.

Michael watched him with amusement. "Not so high and mighty now, are we?" Michael rose again, "Well, don't let it get you down, friend. I'll give you a little while to think about what I asked you, and I then I'll call. You got a card?"

Fraser was still too stunned to react. Michael glanced about the Mountie's desk and located a plastic business card holder. He took one of cards and shoved it into a breast pocket. Then he held out his hand for Fraser to shake it.

Fraser only stared at the hand, then at Michael's face, then back at his hand. The elder Vecchio snorted, shrugged and left Fraser sitting at his desk, staring confused into empty air.

Fraser didn't wait for the next Tuesday to tell Ray about his brother's visit. He called the detective and insisted that Ray meet him for lunch that very day.

Ray didn't react with outrage, as Fraser had expected. He listened to the story with seeming amusement. The revelation that Fraser now had business cards seemed to be the part of the tale that impressed him most.

"I can't believe he tried to pull that on you," Ray said out of one side of his mouth, the other side being occupied with chewing barbequed chicken. "That just proves you're part of the family. He manipulates us like that all the time."

Ray reached across the table and took an untouched dill pickle from the Mountie's plate. He used the pickle to point to Fraser's uneaten half-chicken. "You going to eat that?"

Fraser shook his head. "Ray, you can stop now."

"Stop eating your leftovers?"

"Stop talking about my being part of your family. It's as though you're trying to convince me all the time."

"I AM trying to convince you. That night when Ma was mad at you - you have to forget about it. She blows up, she calms down. That's the way she is."

"She was perfectly calm when she told me I had driven her first-born away."

Ray took his frustration out on Fraser's uneaten chicken. He reached across the table and drew the Mountie's plate in front of him, picked up a chicken breast in his hands and worried a chunk of meat off with his teeth.

"And you weren't there when she told me I wasn't part of the family. She said it straight out." Fraser told him.

Ray waited until his mouth was empty before trying to make Fraser understand what to Ray was so very clear. "She was upset. She didn't mean it. Look, Benny. Ma wouldn't get mad at a stranger. If she dumps on you, it means she loves you."

"That's very interesting logic, Ray."

Ray munched his way halfway through Fraser's chicken breast while trying to think how to relieve his friend's suffering. What a WASP up-bringing Benny must have had. "You can't take everything that happens in my house so seriously."

Not even the part where she favours your brother over you, Fraser thought, but wouldn't say it aloud. He decided it would be best to bring the conversation back to the original subject. "You don't think I should talk to your brother's wife on his behalf."

"Don't you learn anything? Stay out of it. I know it's hard. Look, the next person you help, help them twice to make up for skipping this one, okay?" He smiled.

Fraser didn't return the smile. "Your brother said something else."

"He talks a lot. Runs in the family,"

"Ray, please! This is important to me!"

Thus appealed to, Ray dropped his attempts to jolly his friend out of his unhappy mood. "What else did he say?"

Fraser repeated the conversation about his grandfather and tried to make Ray understand how demoralizing it had been. Ray tugged at his sparse hair with both hands and rolled his eyes.

"You see how he manipulates people? So your grandpa burned your bottom a few times. Who the hell cares."

"I care."

"Well, you shouldn't. Michael's just messing with your mind. God, you got it right when you said he should be behind bars, I almost wish I could catch the son of a bitch starting something, so's I could arrest him myself. Except Ma would kill me."

That very afternoon, Michael called Fraser at the office. He called again the next day, and again the next. The fourth day, he called twice: once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Thereafter his calls became more frequent. At first he begged but in a condescending tone. It was a paradox that Fraser hadn't thought possible until he heard it time after time. Then, after a week, Michael's tone on the telephone changed and he was penitent. He was so sorry for what he had been like before and ready to turn over a new leaf. But the lawyers were out to get him. All he wanted to do was hug his kids.

Fraser stayed polite but firm during each phone call, but eventually it all began to wear him down. He asked the Inspector for permission to divert his phone line to Turnbull so the other Mountie could screen out Michael's calls. Thatcher sympathized and allowed it. For a few days Fraser was spared Michael's pleadings, until Michael found ways to disguise his voice and use false names to get past the none-too-swift Turnbull.

The worst of it was that despite Ray's dismissal of his brother's words, Fraser's moral superiority had taken a beating. Michael had cracked the Mountie's armour in just the right place.

It occurred to Fraser that he might be able to get rid of Michael by pretending to help. He could let the older Vecchio witness him making an attempt to convince Lina. Yes, he'd talk to her right in the front doorway as he had that night that now felt like years ago. Let Michael watch and see him fail to convince her.

Fraser ran this plan past Ray and, as Fraser expected, Ray was dead set against it. "Don't get involved anymore, Benny. Didn't you learn anything the last time? Stay out of it. You know Ma's temper. She'll dump on you for weeks. We can get a court order to stop him from bugging you, you know."

"Your brother has enough of courts and orders to deal with," Fraser sighed.

"He wants to use you. Don't let him."

Inspector Thatcher and her deputy sat together at his cramped desk while he showed her some modifications he made to their monthly spending reports. The phone on his desk rang and Fraser's hand jerked towards the receiver out of force of habit. But he stopped the motion and drew his hand back to where it was pointing to some numbers on the printout they were working with.

"Fraser?"

"I don't want to disturb our concentration, sir. My voicemail will pick it up."

She let the matter go at that, but later in the afternoon she called his line again at a time she knew he was sitting alone at his desk. She got his voicemail. "My office, Fraser. As soon as you hear this," she told the machine.

Only moments later he was standing at attention in front of her desk.

"Constable, this is interfering with the smooth functioning of the liaison office. If this man won't leave you alone, we can get an injunction."

"Sir, I'd rather not get the authorities involved."

"Fraser, let me help in some way."

"I can't, sir. I don't want any official interference."

"Then sit down."

Fraser hesitated, she was inviting a confidence in a subject he didn't want to discuss so he preferred not to sit down. On the other hand, she had given him a direct order. He placed himself in one of her visitor's chairs, sitting up as straight as he could to make it clear he still felt he was at attention.

"I don't like to see anybody harassing you like this. What does he want from you? Specifically."

"He wants me to go visit his wife and ask her to let him see their children."

"Why you?"

"I helped him once. It's rather a long story, sir."

Her eyes softened. "And you'd rather not tell it. This must be very hard for you. He's Detective Vecchio's brother so naturally you want to help." Thatcher sighed. "Something about this doesn't sound right, Fraser. I can't quite put my finger on it, but . . ." She got up out of her chair and started pacing. Fraser jumped to his feet.

Thatcher waved a downward gesture at him. "Sit," she barked. He dropped back into the chair.

She continued pacing and thinking. "Why would he think that you have so much power? I mean, his wife went to the trouble of getting a court order. You're a stranger to her. Why would she listen to you? No, it doesn't make sense."

"He wants my help, sir."

She hadn't been looking at him during her pacing but now she turned and he saw her expression was kindly.

"I know you believe you have to put every problem in the world to rights. This Vecchio man is playing on that, don't you see? What he is asking of you doesn't make sense."

"I'll put an end to it, sir," he promised her.

The next Tuesday lunch with Ray was at a Mexican restaurant. Fraser poked listlessly at a burrito with no real desire to put any portion of it in his mouth

"This stops now, Benny," Ray said seriously. "You've lost so much weight we can put two Mounties in that red suit of yours."

"I promised the Inspector I'd put an end to it," Fraser answered.

Ray let out an exasperated cry. "You're not the one that has to stop this! You're the victim! He's harassing you!"

The role of victim didn't appeal to Fraser. "I'll end it. Tonight."

"No, tonight you're coming to the house so Ma can feed you properly."

Fraser was still uncomfortable in Ma's presence. For all Ray's assurances Fraser was still ill at ease. He was afraid that the old, Italian lady would crush him with two syllables, calling him not "Benito" but "Fraser".

"Tell your mother I'll just be a little late." Fraser looked down at the burrito and considered whether to take a bite. His queasy stomach made the decision for him. "I'll get back to the office. I'm not really hungry."

Ray watched him go out of the restaurant and sat thinking while he finished Fraser's burrito. He'd been raised not to let good food go to waste. He hadn't quite finished eating when he came to a decision, whipped out his cell phone and called Inspector Thatcher's line.

Fraser sat down at his desk to call Michael Vecchio. He lifted the receiver and dialed the number that Michael's voice had repeated until it had been burned into his brain. 658-4177.

The call was answered after only two rings. "Yeah," said a voice that was all too painfully familiar.

"It is I. I'll speak to her." This was not a lie. Fraser didn't say what he would speak to her about. He only hoped Michael would assume he would talk to Lina about letting him see the children.

"When are you going?" Michael asked abruptly.

And here I was expecting his next words to be "thank you", thought Fraser. He answered the question automatically without considering why Michael should need to know. "This evening after work." Fraser hung up without any further talk. With luck, he'd never hear that voice again after this evening.

Well, that's arranged, thought Fraser and went on thinking that for five whole minutes before realizing he had not made any effort to ensure that Mrs. Vecchio would actually be home to talk to him.

The man's been dominating my thoughts so much, Fraser mused, that I just assumed that as soon as I told HIM I was giving in everything else would just fall into place. He looked up the number of Michael's former home, where Lina and the children still lived, and dialed again.

Thatcher, listening from the corridor outside his office, heard him confirm, "Six this evening then. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Vecchio." She went on tiptoe back to her own office but the caution was unnecessary. Fraser was too lost in his own thoughts to hear her come or go. Nor did he hear her calling Ray back to report that Fraser had made the appointment with Michael's wife. She hadn't heard where it would take place but that didn't worry Ray. He'd just follow when Benny left the Consulate after work.

Fraser was too experienced a tracker not to be aware that he himself was being tracked. And even though Ray had taken the precaution of driving a non-descript Honda Civic from the district motor pool, Fraser caught sight of him from the window of the bus as he rode along to the house where he had once gone with Michael Vecchio. Fraser nodded to himself in agreement with Ray's tactic, even though he himself was the prey.

When the vehicles reached a point a few miles from Michael's house Ray slowed and allowed the traffic to come between the Civic and Fraser's bus. Fraser figured, correctly, that Ray had now deduced Fraser's destination and planned to turn off, take another route and park close, but not too close, to his brother's house. He imagined Ray as he had seen him dozens of times on stake-outs: hunched down, collar turned up. It was spring and the sun would still be up when Fraser got to the house, so Ray should be able to watch easily.

Fraser got off the bus and walked five blocks through a residential district to the house. He kept all his senses alert for signs of Ray. As he came close to the house he thought he saw his friend but in the wrong car. But no, it was Michael Vecchio's car he saw. Fraser himself had ridden it that night when he first came to get Michael's wallet from Lina. The man inside looked so much like Ray that Fraser mistook him for his brother. Michael was sitting in his car, across the street from his own house, watching.

Lina appeared at the door. She must have been looking out the window. Fraser saw her turn her head back and forth looking at him and at her husband in turn. Where was Ray? In his peripheral vision Fraser detected movement.

I must not let Michael see where Ray is, Fraser thought. Resisting the impulse to turn his head he only moved his eyes in the direction of the movement to pick an impression of a man in a trench coat slipping behind a parked car. He hadn't seen the Honda but figured Ray must have parked it where he, Fraser, would not see it.

Well, we're all here, thought Fraser.

Lina left the window and opened the front door. She stepped out onto the front porch and called to the Mountie across the street, "Constable! Constable Fraser, is that you?"

Fraser couldn't help wondering if she thought any other Mountie in full red serge uniform would have any reason to be on her street, then shook the thought from his head. He risked a quick glance around him, fixing the position of the two Vecchios in his mind, and then headed across the road.

As Fraser came up the front steps, Lina stood aside from the doorway to make room for him. "Please come in, Constable," she said. Lina was looking only a little healthier than when Fraser had last seen her. The bruises on her face had faded, but there was still a worn, haggard expression about her eyes.

Fraser stopped at the doorstep. "Mrs. Vecchio, it would be better if we spoke out here."

"Why?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "I'd like Mr. Vecchio to see that I'm talking to you."

She threw her hands into the air. "Are you here to talk to me or to put on a show for him?"

Fraser sighed. "To be honest, to put on a show."

Lina took his arm and tugged on it. "Inside."

Fraser turned to see what Michael was doing. He saw the man get out of his car and stand leaning against it, watching the house. It took him longer than it should have taken to get out of the car and he stumbled when his feet hit pavement.

Dear God, he's drunk. Fraser toyed briefly with the idea of making a citizen's arrest for impaired driving, but decided against it. He had no proof. Michael may have driven up sober and sat drinking in the car.

Meanwhile, Ray took advantage of the moment that Michael's eyes were off the house to dart from behind the parked car to a spot much closer to the house behind the next door neighbour's bushes.

The Vecchios are on the move, Fraser thought.

Meanwhile Lina was still tugging on his arm. Fraser allowed himself to be pulled inside to the vestibule and Lina pushed the center of the wooden door with her palm so that it chunked to a close behind him.

She led the Mountie to the family's "only for company" living-room where a coffeepot, cups and saucers and a plate of homemade Italian wafer-cookies were waiting on the coffee table. The plastic was still on the couch and chairs. A fine layer of dust coated the cups and saucers. The furniture was heavy and ornately carved, like the furniture of Ray's living room. China, of the same pattern as the china on the coffee table before him, sat as though looking out through the glass doors of a display cabinet. There were gaps in the piles of dishes in the cabinet. Lina had apparently taken out these "good dishes" expressly for his visit and been too pre-occupied to rinse off the dust.

Fraser had already picked up on her fear, scenting her animal panic, and this was further evidence of her distress.

Fraser knew better than to insult her by declining the refreshments. He let her pour coffee and munched his way through what he hoped were enough of the pastries to satisfy her, in brave defiance of the dust. This opening ceremony done, he proceeded to business.

"Your husband asked me to come speak with you about letting him see the children," he started.

"No, he's been nagging you to death about it. Ray told me," she said. She had poured herself a cup of coffee but hadn't touched it all the time she was observing Fraser eating and drinking. Now she took a sip, but her hands shook and a tiny bit of coffee spilled over the rim of her cup onto her hand. She didn't seem to notice - either the coffee was now too cold or she was too distracted to feel it.

"Do you think I should let him? He's been hanging around the house, you know. He doesn't try to come in - he knows I'll get him arrested if he does. But he stands across the street and watches. My lawyer says there's nothing she can do about that. He's allowed to stand in the public street as long as he doesn't come onto the property."

This disturbed Fraser but didn't surprise him.

"You don't think I should let him in, do you?" Lina pleaded.

Fraser hesitated to answer. Again here he was with the chance to interfere. He hadn't sought this; it had been thrust upon him. He could refuse to speak his mind, he knew. That's what Ray would want him to do. In fact, it was probably the wise thing to do. Let these people sort out their own problems. He wasn't part of the family.

It didn't matter. He couldn't be who he truly was and keep silent. "No," he said, simply.

It wasn't enough of a response to satisfy her. Her upbringing was as talkative as Fraser's own was terse. "That's all? Just: no?"

Fraser lost his caution. I am what I am. It is my nature to interfere, he decided, and I'll risk the consequences. "No, that's not all."

He jumped up from where he had been sitting on the couch and stood over her, grabbing her two hands in his, heedless of any misinterpretation she might make. "Your husband is obsessive. He's been stalking you. He's been stalking me. He hasn't done anything dangerous yet but I fear the day will come when he'll . . . when he'll . . . cross the street. Leave this house if you must, but don't let him near you. Or the children."

He squeezed her hands and stared into her eyes. "I beg you," he whispered.

She rose to face him. "I've been so scared," she whispered back. Then she threw herself against him, clutching him tightly around the middle. Her arms encircled his waist and she squeezed him hard.

"I'm so scared," she repeated. "Everybody says I should keep him away, but I feel so bad keeping him from the children."

"Where are the children?" Fraser mentally kicked himself for not noticing until now that he heard no sound of them since entering the house.

"I told them to go to their friends' house after school. I didn't want them here when you came. I thought, maybe . . . something might happen." Still firmly attached to his mid-section, she laid her cheek against the red serge covering his chest. "Ray says I should tell Michael to go to hell."

Lina turned a tear-smeared face up towards Fraser's face. "You agree with him, don't you?"

Fraser's answer was to put one arm around her shoulders and to wrap the other arm around the back of her head in an impulse of protection. The only sound as they stood there was of Lina's crying.

And then there was another sound of the front door opening. Still clutching Fraser, Lina cried out, "I didn't lock the door!" even as Michael Vecchio rushed into the living room. He swayed slightly as he stood looking at them.

Fraser took hold of Lina's arms and gently disengaged her. "Leave the house," he said, looking not at her but at the switchblade in Michael's hand.

Lina's eyes followed where Fraser was looking. Her calm surprised Fraser as she said, "Michael, you're not supposed to be here."

Michael brandished the knife and rushed her, screaming, "Bitch! Fucking bitch! You going after the Mountie now, you whore?"

Fraser was quick enough to push Lina out of the line of attack but not quick enough to protect himself. The blade plunged into his right side. Lina covered her mouth with her hands and gasped as blood spurted from his wound. Fraser stood looking down at himself, stunned. Michael took the advantage of this, grabbed the knife handle and yanked it out of Fraser's body causing both men to stagger. He lunged at the Mountie, spewing oaths, but the wounded man was still able to disarm the drunken one.

As the two tumbled together to the floor, Fraser tossed the knife across the living room. Lina switched to housewifely autopilot and went over to pick it up and put it on the coffee table. Blood from Fraser's side was now spurting all over the room, soaking the carpet and beading into round pools on the plastic that covered the furniture.

Fraser was becoming weak and confused from loss of blood. Michael, though drunk, now had the advantage and pinned him to the ground. Then, inexplicably to Fraser, the weight of Michael was somehow lifted off him.

"Ray! Help us!" Lina screamed, although Ray was in the midst of doing exactly that.

Michael was still cursing both her and Fraser at the top of his lungs.

"Call 911! I'll get this son of a bitch!" Ray shouted back to her.

Fraser felt confused relief to hear his friend's voice. He could relax now that Ray was here and had the situation under control. Pain was just beginning to register beneath the larger sensations of wooziness and nausea. I really mustn't vomit in living room, he thought, before passing out.

Consciousness teased Fraser, coming close and sliding away. His eyes closed, he picked up reports from his other senses and fought through the fog in his mind to make sense of them. Pain. Medicinal smells. Pain. Institutional cotton against his skin. Lying down, his head on a pillow. Where was the pain coming from? No underclothing on his lower body. Can't pinpoint the pain. From somewhere in the middle of him? A gown coming just down to his knees. Hospital. Oh no, not again. A woman's voice. Why don't they give me something for this pain? Mouth very dry. I'm getting tired of waking up in hospitals. What is the woman saying? Do I need to listen? Probably not. Pain. Other sounds: Beeping. Shuffling. More female voices. Pain.

One female voice was speaking in Italian.

Staying conscious was too much of an effort. Fraser drifted off again.

This time Fraser fought to stay awake. The sensations were clearer now. He was definitely in a hospital. He could feel the IV needle in his hand. The pain in his side was dulled. He must be under the influence of pain medication. That bode well. They wouldn't drug him if he were in immediate danger of his life.

His eyes were still closed as he lay listening for identifiable sounds.

"Tu sei benedetta fra le donne
e benedetto e il frutto del tuo seno, Ges"

Ma's voice.

Santa Maria,
Madre di Dio,

What a comforting sound. He'd heard her before, he was sure of it.

"prega per noi peccatori,
adesso e nell'ora della nostra
morte. Amen"

There was a brief pause and then Ma started again.

"Ave, Maria, piena di grazia,
il Signore con te"

She was saying her rosary. She had finished one Ave Maria and was starting another. Fraser, out of some dim half-conscious respect for religion, decided not to distract her from her devotions by opening his eyes or in any way calling attention to himself. It was pleasant enough just to lie still and listen to her soothing voice.

She loves me after all. How long has she been sitting beside me, praying?

Eyes still closed, Fraser heard the heavy footsteps of a man running into the room.

"Ma! Thank God! There you are!" Ray's voice. "I went looking for him in the Intensive Care. He wasn't there. I thought . . . I thought he was . . ."

I want to see them, Fraser decided. He forced his eyes open slowly and turned his head toward the voices. His eyes focused first on Ma sitting in a chair and then on Ray standing beside her.

Ma held out her arms to her son. He sank to the floor beside her and buried his head in her lap. She stroked her younger son's head.

"Benito's going to be fine. He was doing so well they moved him out of Intensive Care."

"So if he's okay, why are still praying over him?"

Ma kissed the top of Ray's head. "It's what I do. Me, I pray. You," she paused.

"I put my brother behind bars."

Ray's voice was muffled as he burrowed into her lap. He was trying not to cry. Tears of sympathy came into Fraser's eyes as he listened to Ray talk to his mother.

"He tried to kill Lina and he almost killed Fraser. I had to take him in, Ma. I had to." Ray said, breathing in uneven gulps. "You must hate me."

Ma gasped. "Hate my own son? How can you even think that? We all do what we do. I pray. Michael, he makes trouble. And you . . ."

"Yeah, and me?" came Ray's barely audible question.

"You keep the family together, mi' figlio. You take care of us all. You're my rock, my rock."

Ray burst out into sobs. "Ma . . ."

"Bambino, I should tell you more often."

Fraser lay listening to Ray's crying and Ma's wordless cooing sounds. All was well with the world.

At length, Ray spoke again, "And Benny? What does he do?"

"He interferes. I should know better than to try to stop him." Ma reached over to squeeze Fraser's arm and only then noticed that the Mountie's head was already turned towards her and his eyes opened. "Benito, you're awake! Look, Raymondo, he's awake."

Ray didn't bother to hide the fact that he had been crying. His voice and hand were still unsteady as he reached for Fraser's hand. "Hey, Benny."

"Ray." Fraser forced his dry throat to produce the syllable.

"So, you had to interfere, didn't you?"

Fraser didn't feel strong enough to speak the words "I'm sorry" aloud. He just looked at his friend and hoped Ray would understand.

Ray did understand. "Don't worry about it, Benny. Like Ma says, it's what you do."

End.

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End Interference by The Moo: the_moo37@hotmail.com

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