Getting By	

Standard Disclaimer. How sad is it, when you're getting inspired to write
m/m slash by a song called "All Woman?" Just a thought for the rest of
this series. Please send comments, questions, compliments, and otters to
sdelcul@mail.com or visit http://members.nbci.com/dueSou and
http://www.learnlink.emory.edu/~sdelcul  Getting By 

--I'm counting sheep but running out.-- 
 --Green day, "Brain Stew"-- 
   "Time for bed, children. You've got school tomorrow." 

With only minor quasi-expected mumblings, Francesca and Maria stood up and
headed for their rooms. Rosa Vecchio looked at her son, sitting by the
window, staring out.  

"Time for bed, Caro."  

Startled, he looked up at her with sad green eyes, masking the pain of
another broken promise from her husband. Quietly he stood and turned
toward his room.  

"Ray-"	

Without a word he turned.  

Disquieted at his silence, she swallowed her familiar words of comfort.
"I'll be in in a moment."  

Still quiet, he nodded and left the room.  

She listened to Francesca and Maria as they recited their prayers and then
tucked them into bed with a kiss. Rolling back her shoulders
unconsciously, she checked on her son. He didn't say anything as she
tucked him in which surprised her. He was a little old for such things,
and normally he would have put up a fuss. She wished she could say or do
something to make him feel better, but only one person could have done
that and he was blind to the hurt he caused.  

Later that night when Carmine finally came home she attempted to talk to
him.  

"Where's dinner?" He interrupted loudly.  

"Hush. You'll wake the kids. Here. Eat." She laid a plate of pasta in
front of him. Thankfully, he didn't think to ask for anything else. She
knew better than to bring up his promise to Ray now.  

When they were in the bedroom with the door closed, she brought it up.	

"Carmine, you forgot your promise to Raymondo."  

Still half drunk, he ignored her.  

"He just wanted to spend some time with you." She helped him undress.  

"Stop pestering me, woman."  

They were both unaware of little Ray next door, able to hear every word of
their argument. Eleven year old Ray didn't cry. He was too old to cry. But
he couldn't stop his hands from fisting up or his breathing from getting
ragged. He lay in bed for several hours, staring at the ceiling, wishing
he was somewhere else.