TITLE: The Pact: Days of Old and Men of Yore AUTHOR: Kasey RATING: PG, Pre-WH SUMMARY: “Some of the most important promises are kept posthumously”. DISCLAIMERS: I own not them, I own them not. It was a hot day in August – I’d guess about the third or so – when we did it, and there was a cool breeze blowing in off the Atlantic that made the day bearable.  We were all together – a rare occurrence – and staying at a cabin on Boston Island that belong to a friend of Leo’s.  Congress was in recess, and both Leo and Noah had gotten off a long weekend.  Abby had rearranged her schedule at the hospital and everyone had packed up and trekked there.  We liked meeting in Boston because it was more centrally located than Hartford or Manchester. The kids had all gotten so big – Josh was 16, a sullen teenager, unhappy about having to come up and spend “Family time” with us all.  Mallory was looking more and more like Jenny and acting more and more like Leo every day, having reached the ripe old age of 7.  My own daughters, Liz and Ellie, were far too old – 10 and 2.  It made ME feel damn old, the way those two were growing. Leo’s friend had also given us permission to use his giant boat – a cuddy cabin – and so, on Saturday, we men took out the boat, a picnic basket, and a cooler, while the kid splayed and the women chattered back at the house. We rode for about an hour or two before stopping for a lunch of sandwiches and beer and Cokes.  We were laughing and joking and talking as men do when Noah suddenly got silent.  “What’s up?” I asked. “Y’know, I was just thinking…with our families back at the house and all…” “They’re fine, the women are there-“ “No, I don’t mean now.  It’s…we should-…” He was struggling with words, which made me worried because Noah **always** knew what to say and how to say it.  “The only word I’m coming up with is ‘pact’.  We should make a pact.” “For we are seven-year-old girls,” Leo joked. But I was curious.  “What kind of pact?” I asked. “If something ever happens to one of us, the others will make sure the family’s okay.” “Something wrong?” Leo asked, concerned. “Not now, no, I mean in the future.  If something – like if something happens to me, you two make sure Josh and Karen are looked out for.” Leo still looked skeptical, but I spoke up.  “I’m in.” And Leo followed suit. “Yeah, me too.” Noah beamed.  “C’mon,” he said, changing the subject once more.  “Let’s go back and check on ‘em, maybe get the kid sout here.  Josh’d like it, he’s never been on a boat before…” Things were hardly perfect back then.  We all had our vices- Leo drank too much, Noah worked too much, I smoked too much – to forget about our problems – Leo still wasn’t over the war, Noah still wasn’t over Joanie, and I still wasn’t over my fear of losing.  But, looking back, those were simpler times.  Times when we’d never heard words like “Cancer” or “Biopsy” or “Chemo” associated with Noah, times before Leo worried about the Twelve Steps and being recognized at meetings and media frenzy, times before Zoey and before Mal’s disastrous first marriage, times before Leo’s divorce and the presidency and white supremacists who tried to take away one of our own. But even though things were simpler then, it doesn’t mean the pact is invalid.  I looked after Jenny and Mal through the worst of Leo, and now he looks after Josh as well as if Josh was his own.  And we take turns calling Karen ever week or so, just to say hey and see how she’s holding up. Some of the most important promises are kept posthumously.  And I will not break it. For you, Noah, my friend. Dies Irae.