We met at Ava’s house. Maria, Ava and I embraced and kissed and laughed and wept. We’d spoken by phone several times over past year, but this was first time we’d been together, physically together, in over two years. Misha held back. He was afraid. I could feel it without even reaching out. My assurances didn’t help him. We girls finally settled and an uneasy silence descended. Misha was miserable, and hung his head. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Mickey,” Ava finally began, saying sincerely, “It’s good to see you.” Then again with silence.

“I know why you left, Miguelito . . . but, why didn’t you call?” asked Maria.

  “I’m sorry. Sorry I left that way. It’s just, every place, every face, every voice, especially your voices . . .  we were all so close . . . I was suicidal.” He let that sink in. “I was so mean to you. Such an asshole. I’m so sorry.” He had to stop.

Ava said, “Mickey . . . when we first met, you and Steve were our only friends. You wouldn’t let anyone pick on us . . . Last time we saw you, you were so fucked up, like drunk and stoned. You were obviously in agony. I tried to hug you,” Ava’s lip started quivering. “You remember what you said?”

  “Mmm, I was kind of out of it.” 

“’Get away from me, bitch faggot!’ That’s what you said.”

“Oh . . .” He sunk to the floor, hugging his knees, head buried, beginning to weep silently. I thought he was maybe going to say he didn’t remember because he was too stoned, but then he said, “Yeah, Aves. I do remember now. That was pretty awful. Those were really awful, terrible words.” He took a few deep breaths. “You know I can’t remember ever using those words ever, ever before then . . . I’m sorry I pushed you away, Ava. I love you very much.”

Maria couldn’t hold back anymore and sat down beside him, embracing him, weeping with him. “Hey . . .  Miguelito. I forgive you. I forgave you quite some time ago. I’m really glad you didn’t use any fucked up hate language with me. I might have kicked your ass.” She was totally serious.

“You know, I can forgive the epithets, although I think I deserved better than ‘bitch faggot’. Shit, why not, ‘fucking fat bitch faggot’ or ‘fucking fat bitch faggot Polack?’ . . . I mean, Mickey, you used to be much more articulate.”

Misha looked up at Ava, like, What? Are you making a joke?

“I forgave you for that a while ago, but what I can’t forgive is why you didn’t call for over a year, why you stopped calling your mama. I was calling her every month. You couldn’t call your mama? Jeez, Mickey! I mean, really!”

“He had reasons,” I said. “Maybe not good enough reasons for you, Ava. He’s had hard time of it.” I was thinking, maybe, he needed an advocate and he’d been beaten up enough.

Maria stood up, pulling him up and together they approached Ava. He said, haltingly, “I was really down . . . Never been that far down. Calling my parents made me feel so bad I thought about . . . ending myself. And I felt too ashamed to call you guys. The longer I waited, the harder it got. I thought about you all the time, but it made me so sad. I had lost all hope of ever seeing Rivka again. Ava . . . please forgive me. I love you guys so much.” And then three of them were hugging, sobbing, then four of us.

“Oh, for Chrissake! Who died?” Steve entered abruptly. We all stopped. Misha was looking at Steve.  Steve walked right up to Misha and hugged his friend. Then it was five of us sobbing, embracing. The boys were wiping each other’s’ tears. They had never been shy about showing affection with each other.

First day they met, Misha told me, best friends. Fifth Grader was bullying Steve. Mickey hated bullies. Helped Steve out of jam, I guess. “Maybe used a little too much force,” he told me. Steve and Misha were inseparable thereafter. Even after I showed up, Misha always made sure Steve was okay . . . safe. Even after group dynamic shifted and it was apparent to everyone, except Misha and me, that he and I were in love, Steve and Misha were close. They shared private ironies, in their opinion, the highest form of humor, and were physically comfortable with each other, often walking arm in arm, arm over shoulder, around waist. Misha didn’t give one shit what others thought about him, like if he was gay. He loved his friend. 

Gang of Five was reunited. We were laughing and giggling. Thin line between laughing and crying. Pain, anger, maybe not forgotten, but put aside for now. Two years apart had tested us. Tested our love. Our bonds were strong.

Misha and I had to get back to his house. Parents’ day off. We made plans with Gang to meet next day and departed in my 1950 Chevy Styleline Special. Misha had rescued it from the street in front of my house after our kidnapping and Papa Owen had made sure it was in running order before we flew out from New York. I had missed my beautiful Chevy. Misha and I had experienced many intimacies in it and I got little sad thinking we would leave it in Hillsdale when we went back to New York. At least, I thought, we’ll always have automobile to drive when we come to visit.

“Feel better, my love?” I said as I reached over and caressed his cheek when we stopped at stop sign.

Misha had been searching for something good on radio, pausing briefly on news report about latest updated American death toll in Vietnam, then he found Jim, singing, “People are strange . . . when you’re a stranger.” He turned to me. “Da. Thank you, baby. That was hard. I don’t think I would have been able to do that without you. Of course, I wouldn’t be here, you know, without you . . .” He was smiling earnestly at me, when I looked over. Every time I looked over.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Gazing at you with love.”

“Stop it. You’re distracting me . . . trying to drive.”  Next time I looked over, he was staring at me like he’d had lobotomy. We both burst out laughing.