Читать книгу The Neverborne - James Anderson - Страница 7

Two hundred and seventy miles southwest of Moscow

1966

The small Russian farmer lay dying in his bed. His old wife sat holding his hand and wiping away her tears.

The old man looked at her and smiled with a palpable tiredness. “Do not cry for me, Galena,” he said. “I will soon be with God. That cannot be a bad thing for me. I am glad to go.”

“Da, Ivan,” she said. “You will soon be with God. He will welcome you and give you great peace. If anyone deserves it, it is my Ivan.”

His sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters were gathered around his bed, singing softly the Russian hymns he so enjoyed. He loved each member of his family and each member loved him. He was their papushka, their grandfather, and a great example of faithfulness and devotion, and no finer man born of mortal parents had ever lived on the earth.

Each of them had memories of special times with him. Each of them would tell the following generation of how he fought the devil and won.

A young boy about eight years old stood holding his father’s hand. He gazed at his grandfather and finally could contain himself no more. “Papushka,” said the boy, “may I ask you a question?”

The old man turned his head and his old blue eyes bore love into the boy. “Of, course, little one. I am dying but I still have time for your questions.”

“Did you really fight the devil and beat him?”

“No, no,” said the old man, smiling. “It was not the devil. I fought one of his demons. The devil only gives orders. His demons fight the battles. But, yes, I won.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Did the demon have horns and a tail, papushka?”

“No,” the old man smiled. “He looked like a man.”

The boy looked suspicious. “How could that be, papushka? The priest in the village and the teachers at my school all say that demons have horns and tails.”

The old man reached out his shaking hand and motioned the boy to come closer. His father lifted the boy on the bed and the old man gathered him into his arm. “Let me tell you something, little grandson. Will you listen?”

The boy nodded. “Da, papushka. I will listen.”

“Good. Priests know little of God and the devil and school teachers know even less. You will not always find God in a church, and you will not go to heaven by crossing yourself or performing rituals.” The boy’s mother, devoted to the Russian Orthodox Church, covered her mouth with her hand and willed herself not to speak. The old man continued, “In this life, you will find God in the fields as you plant your crops and pull them from Mother Russia. You will find him as you worry about your children and pray they are well and happy. You will find him as you help others in their times of need.

“Do not concern yourself about the devil or those who follow him. They will find you if you let them. But, let me tell you something for you to remember. If you keep God always in your heart and mind, the devil will never find you. To the devil and his demons, bad thoughts and deeds are like a fire on a clear night. It is very easy for them to see. And, if you make the bad thought bigger in your mind, you are begging the devil to stay. Do you understand, little one?”

The boy indeed understood. “Da, papushka. Do not let badness in my mind or heart and the devil cannot hurt me. My father has told me this many times.”

The old man patted the boy’s back and smiled. “Do you believe this, little grandson?”

“Yes, papushka. I believe this.”

“Good, little one. Very good.”

The boy’s mother put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do not bother your grandfather with any more of these questions now.”

The old man felt something and looked through his family at the doorway of the room. He smiled when he saw his mother and father dressed in white standing on the outer rim of his family and knew the time had come for him to die. He tried to sit up but did not have the strength. Two teenaged grandsons quickly helped him and propped his pillow behind his back.

“Thank you. I grow very weak, I think.” He looked around at his family and was satisfied. “My time is here. Love and help each other. Do good with every opportunity. If you do this, you will be happy. If you do not, then you won’t.”

The old man’s heart fluttered suddenly and a gripping feeling seized his chest. He took a deep and ragged breath and his old woman cried out. He clutched her hand and yelled, “Mother, father.” He then fell back on the bed, his last breath escaping in a slow hiss.

Instantly, Ivan stood on a golden floor beyond pure and beyond perfect. Golden pillars circled the place and went up so high that he could not see the ends of them. He felt so young, so vibrant, like he was twenty again and in perfect health.

He looked at his hands and saw they did not have the wrinkles of his old age, nor did they have the scars from being caught in the threshing machine when he was a very young man. Then he saw the robe he was wearing. It was red, like the vision he had seen of himself before he fought the demon, and knew he had returned to the courts of the Creator. The robe, instead of being solid red as he had seen before, had a broad golden border and a dazzling golden apron was around his stomach. It shone very bright and he was glad.

He looked around and saw people approaching him, many of whom he recognized from before the world was. He remembered now; he remembered everything. The visions he had seen before his battle all fell into place and the vivid memories flooded into his mind like light into a darkened room. He had completed what he was meant to do. He had returned with honor.

As a tall man in a brilliant golden robe approached, Ivan fell to his knees. He did not know if the man was God but he didn’t mind bowing. The light emitting from the man’s face made it impossible to see the features, and Ivan did not wish to take the chance of offending God.

“Stand up, Ronden,” said the man in the first language from before the world was. “I am your fellow servant.”

Ivan knew that name. It was his name before he was Ivan. It was his name when he fought the black robe at the Time of Decision. Ronden stood and looked at the man. This time, he could clearly see him and recognized him immediately. “Rasho,” said Ronden. “I remember.”

“Yes. We are glad you are here to take your place among us. Are you ready to continue your work?”

“Of course, Rasho. I am always ready to serve the Creator.”

As he spoke, people gathered and touched him. As great peace entered Rondon, his mind and body were quickened and he understood everything.

“I remember Alaal, a great warrior. He is the next to fight. My task is with him.”

“Yes,” said a woman. “And his preparation for the next battle is your responsibility.”

“I understand,” he said.

“There is someone who can help you,” said Rasho. “He is one who is kept in transition as an angel so that he may return to speak to mortals.”

Rondon turned and saw a man, looking very American, dressed in khaki pants and shirt and holding a Stetson hat in his hands. “Hello,” said the man in the first language. “I’m the mortal father to Alaal.”

“That is very good,” said Rondon. “Let us sit in council and reason together.”

Rondon, the former Russian peasant who died greatly loved by everyone who knew him, sat at a golden, oblong table with Alaal’s mortal father and others placed under Rondon’s leadership. In the center of the table stood a cylinder shaped crystal object about two feet high and three feet around. They all watched as the image of Ruben Barlow shown in the crystal. Some of his decisions displeased them, but he was young and his heart was excellent. He would learn. In the crystal cylinder they could see the past, the present, and the future, to a point.

“You have done well, Ernest Barlow,” said Rondon. “He is a good boy and will be a fine man.”

Ernest Barlow nodded. “Yes. He will do well.”

“The Deceiver will do everything he can to conquer him,” said Rondon. “We must provide help for him.”

“Who can we send?” asked a woman.

“We will send Tesho,” said Rondon.

“Tesho?” said the woman. “The great warrior of warriors?”

“He is now on the earth and can protect Alaal against the great evil which is sent to destroy him.”

Rondon waved his hand and the dirty streets of Spanish Harlem appeared in the cylinder. A young man wearing an old coat walked the streets. He moved easily and with great power.

“We will call him to help Alaal,” said Rondon. “Bring the female angel.”

A beautiful Aztec looking woman with long black hair stepped forward. Bowing her head, she said, “I am here for you to command.”

Chico De Leon

New York City, April, 1967

Chico De Leon, at twenty years old, was an up and coming middleweight contender. He had six professional fights since he turned pro at eighteen and was still undefeated.

He was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but came to New York when he was six months old. His father worked on the docks to support his wife, his mother, his three-year-old son, Pablo, and little six-month-old Pedro, nicknamed Chico.

When Chico was a little over two years old, his mother and father were killed in a bus tragedy. An insane man had hijacked the bus and blew up himself and seventeen other people near the George Washington bridge. Pablo and little Chico were left to the care of their grandmother.

Chico and Pablo did not speak English until they entered school. It never occurred to Rosa, their grandmother, that they should learn English before going to kindergarten. Wasn’t that what school was for?

School was difficult for both the De Leon boys, but especially for Chico. Pablo was bright and happy and drew friends naturally. He was handsome and the clubfoot he was born with didn’t seem to affect his social standing. Even the pretty girls in Catholic school uniforms liked being around him.

Chico, on the other hand, preferred to be alone. And, much to the dismay of Rosa De Leon, Chico would fight anyone, anytime, at the drop of a hat. He seemed to enjoy it and soon had the reputation as a brawler and people kept their distance.

“Chico,” his grandmother would say in Spanish, “why do you fight so much. It hurts your mama grande to see you hit other boys. Their mothers come to me and say that my grandson, my little Chico, hurts their sons and makes them bleed from their noses and mouths. Chico, mi hijo, can you not stop?”

But Chico couldn’t stop because it was his nature. He felt it always in his fists and in his heart. While his big brother was born to be a friend to everyone, and to talk to them and make them feel better about themselves, Chico was born to fight.

Chico knew what was right and what was wrong. In fact, it was crystal clear to him. He never hit anyone he thought was a good person, no matter what they might say to him in anger or frustration. He only hit people who were doing means things – like big boys who bullied smaller children, or kids who hurt dogs and cats, or kids who strong-armed milk money. He would hit them very hard and they would stop doing mean things. It was simple. He enjoyed feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage under his hard fists. He enjoyed seeing their eyes roll back and he loved to see them bleeding from their mouths and noses while they were lying on the ground as he stood over them asking if they wanted more. The way he saw it, he was a weapon for what was right.

When his grandmother would cry after a phone call from school, or after a mother complained about her injured son, Chico would put his arms around her and say, “Grandmother, I feel this is what God made me. He has given me this gift to help people. I believe that. Those boys I hit were bad. Their mothers say they are not but that is because they love them. But they are bad boys doing bad things. I would never hit anyone who was good.”

Before he was twelve years old, he went to the boxing gym near his apartment and asked if he could clean up in exchange for boxing lessons. The manager felt it was a fair trade so agreed, and Chico began what he believed was his life’s calling: to be a fighter.

Chico spent as much time at the gym as he could. He went after school and on weekends and would stay as late as he could. Most of the fighters there, because of the neighborhood, were Hispanic. They were lean and hungry and Chico fit right in. He learned from anyone who would teach him. He learned to skip rope and to work on a speed bag while standing on a crate because he was too short to reach it, and he learned to use his feet and slip punches and counter to the head and body with devastating power.

After a few years, he boxed Golden Gloves and won the city championship three years in a row. When he was eighteen and a high school graduate, a promoter asked him to go pro.

“Chico, I’ll pay you one thousand dollars for your first fight. That’s a lot of money for you.”

Chico agreed, wondering how difficult the fight was going to be. He fought a White fighter from New Jersey and knocked him out in the first round. The man was older but he was slow and acted like he had been hit too many times. It was easy. Just a few jabs and a rock-hard right hand to the chin and it was over. He gave the thousand dollars to his grandmother.

“There’s more money to be made, Mama Grande. I am very good at what I do.”

“I know,” she said. “But I worry, mi hijo. Please do not get hurt.”

The next fight was for fifteen hundred dollars against a Black fighter from Baltimore. Chico knocked him out in the second round. It was a little more difficult but not much. Chico watched the man in the first round and saw he dropped his left hand a little after a jab. Chico waited until the beginning of the second round and, after the fighter threw a series of jabs, Chico followed the jab back with a right hook and the man dropped where he stood. The promoter talked to him after the fight.

“You know this kid you just beat was considered a long shot contender. I’m going to get you a better boy to fight next time.”

The next fight was against another White fighter from the South. The kid was mean with a hard body and multiple scars on his face. After thirty seconds into the first round, Chico knew he had his hands full. The fighter was fast and fearless and could take a punch. After the first round, his corner man told him to watch for the pattern. He said the fighter, in three out of five exchanges, threw two lefts, a right, and a left hook. Chico watched for it and the corner man was right.

During the second round, he tested the fighter and got his rhythm down. Fifteen seconds into the third round, Chico knocked him out when he slipped the fighter’s hook and blasted his ribs enough to double him over a little. Then he threw a hard uppercut and the man dropped. The name Chico ‘the Lion’ De Leon appeared in the sports pages the next day and he handed two thousand dollars to his grandmother.

“Did you get hurt?” she asked him.

“No, Mama Grande. He did not hurt me.”

The fourth fight was against another Black fighter from New York. He was known to be a good puncher and had the ability to take punishment. Chico went the first round with him trading jabs to test each other. The second round went against Chico. His opponent landed a hard right hand that staggered Chico with seventeen seconds left in the round. The referee gave him a standing eight count and let Chico continue.

When Chico came out of his corner in the third round, he punched with his left, feinted with his right, jabbed again, then hooked to the body hard enough to make his opponent drop his left hand and Chico knocked him out with a right hook. The Hispanic audience there went crazy. They started chanting “Chico, Chico” which surprised Chico very much.

The promoter was waiting for him after the fight. “You keep this up, and we’re both gonna make some money,” and handed him three thousand dollars.

When he gave the money to his grandmother, she touched his face and said in Spanish, “Mi hijo, do not get hurt.”

The fifth fight was against a Hispanic fighter from Mexico. He was tough and quick and was known for having a tremendous right hand. The odds were against Chico but he knew he could beat him.

The first round against the Mexican was vicious. Both fighters were landing hard punches and both were bloodied when the bell rang. Chico had a cut above his left eye and the Mexican was bleeding from his nose.

The second round was the same. The Mexican came out and started throwing jabs at Chico. A few landed, and a few he slipped. Chico started to see a pattern. Two jabs, a feint, and a left hook followed by a hard right. Then quick shots to the body followed by uppercuts. The Mexican didn’t follow that pattern every time, but often enough. Chico waited for the two jabs and knew he could hook on the feint and knock out the Mexican. With seventeen seconds left in the second round, the two jabs came and the Mexican woke up looking at the light over the ring. His managers were in the ring with some smelling salts and the crazy Puerto Rican was dancing around with his gloves in the air.

Chico got five thousand dollars for that fight. When he gave it to his grandmother, she touched the cut over his eye and said, “Be careful, hijo.”

Chico sixth fight was an opener for two big names. His opponent was a White fighter out of Philadelphia called ‘Kid Irish.’ He was known to be an exceptionally dirty fighter and tough enough to eat nails. Chico watched him fight on TV several times and knew he could beat him, but it would be tough. Chico’s purse, if he won, was ten thousand dollars.

The first round was a hard-hitting brawl. Kid Irish was mean and tough and nasty and his punches were fast and hard. Chico traded him punch for punch and tried to see a pattern. As far as he could see, there wasn’t any. Chico knew that while they were in the ring, Kid Irish wanted him dead.

In the beginning of the fifth round, Chico saw his chance. The left eye of Kid Irish was swollen almost shut, and Chico knew that if he kept circling to his right he could catch the Kid sooner or later. The opportunity came sooner, and Chico knocked Kid Irish out with a vicious right hook thirty-two seconds into the fifth round.

When he gave his grand mother the money, he told her he wanted to take some, buy some new clothes, and take Carlita Santos, a very nice girl who worked at the grocery store and seemed to like him, to dinner.

His grandmother was very pleased. “Of course, mi hijo, she is a good girl for you. I know her family and they are very good Catholics. We have plenty of money now. You take whatever you want.”

So Chico the Lion started dating Carlita Santos. She was sweet and affectionate and saw his goodness through the hard exterior. She had been watching him for a long time. She brought him to dinner at her house and her brothers and father approved. They felt Chico was a good man who would provide for her and the children that would come after they married.

On their fifth date, he took her to a nice Italian restaurant for dinner and some dancing because she loved to dance. Chico didn’t know if he could dance or not but was willing to try for her. Dinner was very good.

When they danced, Chico liked it. Carlita was a great dancer and a good teacher. He thought she was very attractive and when she danced her movements were alive with the music. She moved with grace and rhythm and Chico loved being with her.

While they were dancing, a big Italian-looking man bumped into them and said, “Watch it, spic, you and your spic whore.”

Chico just reacted. Before he knew it, the big Italian-looking man was on the floor unconscious and bleeding from his nose, a gap showed where the man’s two front teeth used to be. Chico’s heart sank when he saw the detective’s badge on the man’s belt.

Chico was arrested on “assault on a peace officer” charges and called his brother. When his brother paid the bail, Chico didn’t want to go home and face his grandmother.

“Don’t worry,” his brother told him in Spanish. “Carlita told us what happened. She said you took that guy out before he could blink his eyes. The judge will understand.”

Chico went home with his brother. Carlita’s father and brothers were there and thanked him for protecting Carlita’s honor, and to tell him they would be there if he needed them. Chico’s grandmother fawned over him and stroked his hair and told him everything was going to be all right.

When Chico went before a judge, the courtroom was filled with Chico’s friends and family. Also there was Detective Luciano, complete with new front teeth. The judge listened to all the information. Detective Luciano, of course, wanted Chico thrown in jail. The judge, however, was fully aware of Detective Luciano’s reputation for bigotry.

“Mr. De Leon,” began the judge, “please stand.” Chico stood. “Let me begin by saying that, in my opinion, there is no excuse for what you did to Detective Luciano, no matter what the provocation. However, in view of Detective Luciano’s reputation, I’m sure there was provocation. Although that provocation does not excuse your actions, it does mitigate them. But, I must say, the fact that you’re a professional prizefighter does not stand well for you. Nevertheless, I am prepared to offer you an option.”

The judge motioned to the bailiff who opened the door to the judge’s chambers. A tall Black Marine sergeant came in and went to where Chico was standing.

“Mr. De Leon, if you are convicted of assault, as you no doubt will be, you could spend up to five years in prison. No one, with the possible exception of Detective Luciano, wants that. However, I am giving you an option. It has been a fairly common practice throughout this nation to offer young men in situations like this the opportunity to join the service rather than serve jail time.

“This is Sergeant Washington of the United States Marine Corps. If you agree to join the Marine Corps and serve a minimum of two years active duty, I will suspend this charge. Upon your honorable discharge from the Marines, the charge will be dropped. What do you say, Mr. De Leon?”

Luciano was on his feet. “What kind of garbage is this, judge?”

The judge pointed his gavel at Luciano. “One more word from you, Detective Luciano, and I will hold you in contempt.” He turned back to Chico. “Well, Mr. De Leon, what do you say?”

Chico looked at Sergeant Washington and then at his grandmother. He really didn’t see that he had any choice. He looked at the judge and said, “I’ll go in the Marines, judge.”

The judge looked at him and said, “Wise choice. God bless you, son.”

Two days later, Chico found himself in Paris Island, North Carolina. Chico De Leon’s recruit experience was very similar to Ruben Barlow’s - the biggest difference was a dream Chico had his second night in boot camp. Lights-out was at 2200 hours and Chico was dead tired. The recruits had been up since 0430 hours, had run five miles before breakfast, been beaten and trained all day, and were told the next day would be worse. Chico fell asleep wondering if jail would have been better than the Marine Corps. And then he dreamed his first dream about La Senora.

Chico was sitting on a bench overlooking a field of beautiful flowers. Even though he knew he was dreaming, he could actually smell the flowers and feel the pleasant breeze on his face.

As he sat marveling at the beauty of that place, he sensed a presence to his left. He looked and saw a beautiful lady in a white robe. She didn’t look old but neither did she look young. She had a distinct Aztec look with long black hair and big, luminous dark eyes. She was short, about the size of Carlita, who came up to his chin when she was in high heels. She had high cheekbones and bronze skin.

She extended her hand to him and said in Spanish, “Chico De Leon, you are a good man. Come, let us walk in this beautiful field.”

Chico took her hand and stood up. Her touch was light and cool and very real. When he stood, she released his hand and turned to begin walking. Chico walked beside her, not taking his eyes off her.

“Senora,” he said in Spanish, “what is this beautiful place?’

“It is a place where people from your world can meet and talk with messengers from God.”

“Are you a messenger from God, senora?”

“Yes, Chico. I am here to prepare you for what is to come. Will you hear my words?”

“Yes, senora, I will hear your words.”

“Chico, you are correct to think that God has made you a protector for those who are good but cannot protect themselves. He has given you this gift along with the knowledge of right and wrong. You have kept yourself uncorrupted when it was very difficult to do so. God is very pleased with that.”

He replied, “Thank you, senora. It was not so difficult.”

The lady smiled. “Chico, I once lived in your world. It was very long ago but I remember how hard life was, and how sometimes it was very difficult to choose that which is right. You are very rare, Chico. You were a Lion of God before this world was, and you remain so.”

Chico wondered at her words. “I don’t understand, senora. How could I be before this world was?”

“Ah, Chico, we all lived with God, who is known as the Creator, before this world was organized. Every person who ever lived, who lives now, and who will live was with God before this world. We were spirits then, but looked much as we do in life. Now, I am what you call an angel and I am here to tell you God’s will.

“Before the world, we lived with the Creator, who is God. There were many other spirits there, spirits who rebelled against the Creator’s will, and were cast out from his presence for that rebellion. They are spirits who will never be born in our world, who are condemned forever to misery.

“During this rebellion, you fought for the Creator’s cause and helped cast out those spirits who fought against us. Chico the Lion, are you willing to keep fighting?”

Chico stopped walking and turned to the lady. He knelt in the flowers on one knee, bowed his head, and spread his arms in a symbol of contrition. “Senora,” he said, “I will do whatever you command.”

The lady almost giggled. She took his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. “Well spoken, Chico the Lion. The Creator is very pleased. But, there is a warning. These spirits who will never be born, to them you are marked. They will try to destroy your mind and body. Your only defense is your purity of soul. Keep yourself pure and you will be successful. If you do not keep yourself pure, this great gift that the Creator has given will leave you.”

“I swear, senora, on the heads of my dead parents, to follow the will of God.”

The lady touched his cheek and smiled. She then took his hands and kissed them. Afterwards, she said, “I give you power in your hands, power to protect the weak, and power to advance the good. As long as your heart is pure, you will never lose.

“You will go to war, Chico. When you do, I will visit you again and give you further instructions. Do not fear for your family. They will be watched over. Tell your grandmother and brother about this meeting. They will believe you. Also tell Carlita and her family. They will also believe you. Carlita dreams about you as you dream about her, in a pure way, which is pleasing before the Creator. Adios.”

Chico woke in the darkness. The only sounds he heard were the even breathing of the recruits and the steady steps of the fire watch walking through the barracks. He thought about the dream and wondered if it was only that, a dream. He soon closed his eyes and fell asleep. The dream repeated itself twice in exactly the same way. When morning came and reveille sounded, he knew it was not just a dream.

Chico kept to himself during boot camp, being very careful, as much as possible, not to subject himself to anything he considered impure. The incessant barrage of profanity from the drill instructors and recruits he shed like water off a duck’s back. He wrote his grandmother often and she wrote giving him news. She told him the Puerto Rican community was very upset that he was charged with assault with such a provocation. The community wanted Detective Luciano fired. Instead, he was transferred to another part of the city.

Chico’s brother was very busy with barber school and would soon graduate. Both Chico and his grandmother knew he would be a very good barber. He was very friendly and everyone, even the gringo businessmen, liked him. She told him not to worry and they were getting along very well.

Chico received his first letter from Carlita the day after his dream. She got his address from his grandmother, who got it off the box of civilian clothes he sent home during processing. She sent several pictures of herself, saying she did not want him to forget her. They were pictures taken in her best clothes, her thick, black hair set back with a red rose. Her dresses were the bright reds, blues, and jet blacks that are so becoming on Hispanic women. Her large dark eyes looked with love into the camera, and her sweet smile appeared like it was only for him. There was nothing provocative about the way she stood or sat, but Chico was still stirred by the contours of her body and the slender gracefulness of her legs and the way the shoes on her small feet turned her ankles. He gazed at the bronzeness of her hands and the dark and perfect polish on her fingernails. Other men would find her attractive but perhaps not beautiful. To him, she was every woman in the world. Some recruits were passing pictures of their girlfriends around for others to look at, but not Chico. He did not want anyone looking at her and thinking impure thoughts.

Chico made acquaintances but no real friends in boot camp. When he graduated, his family and Carlita came down to see it. They all looked very proud as he stood before them in the sharply pressed and immaculate uniform. They brought Chico’s favorite food and Chico ate with gusto and said, muy rico many times. When Chico thought that it was time, he told them exactly what he saw and heard in the dream. His grandmother crossed herself and muttered a prayer. She then put her hands on her grandson and said, “Do what La Senora tells you to do, mi hijo, this thing is truly from God.”

When Chico turned to Carlita, she was crying. She suddenly threw her arms around Chico’s neck and said, “Mi amour, I will pray for you many times every day and night. Do what God wills, and, please, allow me to do whatever I can to help you in this great work.”

When the visiting time ended, he embraced his grandmother and brother. He then turned to Carlita. “Let me look at you. I want to remember every part of you. I will take this image to war with me, and I will return and make you my wife.”

Carlita stepped very close to him. He heard his brother utter approval and his grandmother thank God. Carlita looked up into his eyes. “I am only for you, mi amour.” Then she pulled his head down and they kissed. For both of them, other than family members, that was the first kiss of their lives.