Red Room Where the Writers Are

 "Not in front my kids," yelled our mustached neighbor, Mr. T out his bathroom window. Then slammed it closed.

Mr. T's house overlooked our driveway on the small island of Jamestown in the smallest state, Rhode Island. A driveway made of broken clamshells and cracked concrete, full of barely functioning cars, a tired motorcycle and clam digging equipment.

With seven adults and a few four legged creatures living in our multi-bedroom house, Mr. T was privy to traffic, conversation and loud music day and night.

But what was it this time that his nosy daughter and aggressive son should not witness? It couldn't have been drugs. Rarely did we smoke pot and certainly not outside. A fair amount of drinking took place but also within the confines of the house or in the side yard safe from his view. Was it the early morning departure of my fisherman housemate or the late night return of those out for a late night nip?

We ignored his audible admonition but wondered what we had done to incur his wrath. Dismissing it easily, we went about our business working as lawyers, organizers and cooks.

Then one day in a rare neighborly moment, he revealed to my fisherman housemate what he had seen. Two women embracing and kissing in our driveway. Two women acting like that in front of his children.

My fisherman roommate laughed and then allayed his fear. The two women in question were not lovers. They were not lesbians, queer or gay. They were cousins. First cousins who were very close. And very emotional.

Mr. T softened a bit before skulking back inside his raised ranch. When my fisherman roommate related the story to us we laughed for days.  Constantly repeating Mr. T's line, "Not in front of my kids."

But what Mr. T thought he saw turned out to be correct. The embracing cousins were straight at the time but now are happy, healthy lesbians. Mr. T saw something we didn't even see in ourselves.