Work Text:
Clinton Jones walked up the long, familiar walkway of his mother’s house in Chestnut Hill and knocked on the big red door. He could hear the clicking of heels inside getting closer until it swung wide.
“Clinton?” the petite woman who answered said when she saw him.
“Ma,” he replied, and staggered back as she threw her arms around his neck and clutched him to her in a death grip.
“Oh my God, what an unexpected surprise! Come in, come in!” she said, waving her hand, but then stopped him. Grasped him by both arms. “No wait, let me look at you! No, come in!” She tugged on his sleeve.
Clint didn’t know if he’d ever seen Myra Jones this flustered before, but he had to say he liked seeing his usually imperturbable mother this way and resolved to drop in unannounced more often. She blinked at the tears that had come to her eyes and ushered him into the house.
“What brings you down to Philadelphia?” she asked, following him through to the kitchen. She made a beeline to the refrigerator and pulled out the fixings to make him a sandwich.
“Can’t I just come to visit?”
“Not when you’re running the FBI up there in Boston. How is your work? Are you OK? You look tired. You know how much I worry about you. Are you eating? You look thin.”
“Ma, come on, take a breath!” he laughed, getting up and taking her by the hand, he led her back to the breakfast bar and made her sit down opposite him.
He sat looking at her for a minute, not knowing how to begin to tell her what he’d come to tell her – that he’d found a very special someone and his name was Neal Caffrey.
Suddenly, her face fell. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong! Vey ist mir, you know how much you kids worry me!”
“Ma, stop it! It’s nothing bad, it’s just... Well, I have some news and I needed to tell it to you in person.”
Myra bit her lip, physically restraining herself from peppering her son with another series of rapid-fire questions.
“I met someone. I’m in love. Ma, I’m in love.”
“Oh!” Myra exclaimed, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, Clinton, baby, I’m so happy! Tell me all about her. Where did you meet? When? What’s she like?”
Clint's face reddened and he looked down. “There’s something you need to know about this person –“ he said, his words halting.
“What? Is she not Jewish? Oh, Clinton, you know I gave up on that for you a long time ago. Much as it breaks my heart.” She patted his hand with a martyred look on her face that he knew too well.
Clinton gave her a pained look – this was well-worn territory for them, and would never be resolved. “No. Not Jewish. Irish, I think. We really haven’t talked about it. But there’s something else.”
“She’s not a Republican, is she?!”
“Jesus, Ma, can you let me get a word in?” he said, exasperated. She pressed her lips together in a tight line and he continued. “This is really, really hard.” He took a deep breath, went through the way he’d rehearsed it on the train down, closed his eyes and plowed ahead. “The person that I love…is…a man.”
Her hand on his didn’t move, she didn’t react or throw things. There was no gnashing of teeth or rending of garments. All she said was, “OK.”
He opened his eyes. “OK what?”
“What, OK? OK!”
“But…what?” He stared at her, and she looked back at him with an almost placid expression on her face.
“It’s OK, Clinton. You know these things don’t matter to me.”
“No, I don’t know that. This is a pretty big thing for me to be telling you, Ma. It’s really important.”
Myra reached up and cupped his cheek with her hand, looked him in the eyes, and smiled. “I know, believe me I do. What do you think happend when little Myra Cohen got married to an African American man, huh? You don’t think she didn’t lose a few friends and cause a few arguments?”
“I suppose not.”
“I’m telling you that as long as you’re happy, I’m happy, Clint. Are you happy?”
“I am.”
“Are you in love?”
“Like I’ve never been before, Ma.”
“Then I’m happy.” She got down from her stool and came over to him, took him in her arms and held his head against her chest. “I love you, Clinton, and nothing will ever change that. Not who you love, or what you do, or who you are.”
Clinton realized suddenly that he was crying, and he wiped the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. He sat back in his chair with a sniff as Myra went back to making him his sandwich. After a minute, she looked at him thoughtfully. “So, this man you love, does he have a name?”
“Neal.”
“And is he the reason you couldn’t come home for Passover this year?”
“No, that was because of work, I told you.”
She nodded. “And do I get to meet him?”
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“I think we can fit an extra place at the table.”
“Think you can come up to New York? Neal… he doesn’t get to leave the city much.”
----
Thank you for your time.